


And when October goes

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anal Sex, Bottom Daryl, Corpses, Daryl has a stalker (sort of), Disturbing Themes, Family Feels, Family Fluff, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Ghosts, Homophobia, Horror, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentioned Death of a Child, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Violence, mentions of familial abuse, this is where things get spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-11-27 14:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 61,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20949596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: Daryl Dixon can see ghosts. Ghosts know about this, and they come to ask him for favors. One day in October, Daryl is visited by the ghost of Beth Greene, who asks him to solve the mystery of her death. Very soon, they both realize the mystery runs deeper than anyone could've thought, the peaceful small town isn't as peaceful as everyone suspects, and the new deputy investigating Beth's disappearance is followed by ghosts of his own.





	1. There's a Ghost in My House

**Author's Note:**

> I know I shouldn't be starting a new story with so many already in progress, but this one is planned out fully and almost completely written already. It's also a Halloween sort of story which means it just has to be posted in October. As such, it will be updated more frequently than I usually update my stories. It's going to be spooky, but there won't be anything graphic. Definitely not as graphic as canon.

When Daryl Dixon wakes up early on an October morning to a young blonde girl in his bed, he groans and covers his head with the blanket, pretending he’s still asleep.

Now, the unusual reaction isn’t by any means the girl’s fault. She hasn’t done anything wrong, as far as Daryl can tell from one quick look. She’s just sitting on top of the sheets at the foot of the bed, fully dressed in jeans, a sweater and a denim jacket, and her big eyes are a bit puffy from crying. She’s quite a beautiful young thing, except for the crying, and normally Daryl probably might not even be so averse to having her in his bed. If she was a little older, that is, closer to being legal. And if she was a man. And-

Well. If she was alive.

“Go away,” he mutters from under the blanket, hating the hint of resignation creeping into his tone. Since when does he sound so defeated?

“I need your help,” the girl says insistently. She tugs on the blanket, successfully pulling it completely off Daryl and revealing that he likes to sleep naked in the process. 

He glares at her as she blushes and looks away like a modest maiden from the nineteenth century - but not before sneaking a peek or two.

“Told ya to go away,” Daryl says grumpily and pulls the blanket back to wrap it around his waist as he gets up. “Why’s it always y’all needs my help in the mornin’? Can’t ya like, wait until breakfast at least?”

“It’s not like I had a choice,” the girl informs him and offers him quite an impressive glare of her own. “Couldn’t exactly pick a time to get murdered, now could I?”

Daryl sighs. Yeah, he figured so much. There’s only one reason young, pretty girls would ever come around to visit the Dixon household, and it’s certainly not because of Daryl’s hospitality or Merle’s gentlemanly demeanor. Nope; the reason is much more mundane and yet also supernatural at the same time: Daryl can see ghosts. Always could, for as long as he can remember, though he admittedly didn’t even understand they were ghosts during the first few years of his life. And then, as if just seeing them wasn’t freaky enough, he realized ghosts know he can see them - and they have a lot to say about that. Now whenever they want someone to whine about stuff to, they come flocking right towards him.

“So what’s it gonna be?” Daryl asks, heading towards the tiny kitchen to make himself some hot chocolate. It counts as breakfast in his books. He doesn’t think he’s got any solid food left, anyway, so it’s not like he has much of a choice. Being unemployed sucks major balls. 

“What do you mean?” The ghost girl inquires curiously, following him. She sits down on the counter when Daryl opens the fridge to try and locate the last carton of milk among Merle’s numerous beer bottles. 

“Yer unfinished business shit,” Daryl clarifies, fishing the carton out, then makes a low noise of disgust when he notices that the milk’s already two weeks past the expiry date. He checks the taste, just to make sure if it’s really soured, and, yeah. It’s bad. Groaning, he tosses the carton into the bin and sets some water to boil. Powdered hot chocolate can be made with water, at least. It’s not as good, but hey, he’s poor. He’ll take what he can get. 

He explains: “Generally, yer kind only come to me for two types of shit. One’s the vengeful spirit type, but ya don’t look like one of them’s an’, well, they’s not the talkative sort. The other kind is those that got somethin’ left to do. Can’t move on ‘til shit’s done. I figure, yer that kinda ghost. Yeah?”

The girl hums thoughtfully. “You deal with ghosts a lot?”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he admits, “all the fuckin’ time. Now let’s cut the crap, I ain’t got the kinda time to be playin’ twenty questions with ya. Tell me wha’cha need an’ I’ll see to it so’s it gets done.”

He doesn’t really mean to be rude. He supposes from the way she’s dressed and the way she talks, the girl’s probably never done a single thing wrong in her life, besides obviously having been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s not her fault, any of it: that she’s dead, that the weather is awful, that Daryl got recently fired from his job at the factory and the stupid town has no other employment opportunities for a guy who’s basically a backwoods redneck with no future. It just really sucks to be a Dixon in a place where everyone knows his last name and judges him by it, instead of by his individual merit. Not that he’s such an upstanding citizen himself, he’s got shit under his belt too, but fuck it. Daryl’s certainly nothing like his worthless drunkard dick of a father. They could all at least acknowledge that.

The ghost girl sighs and shakes her head. “You think it’s so easy for me? I didn’t want to be dead, you know. Worse still, I don’t even know who did it, and why. Or where. It’s the where that really makes it hurt,” she says and her lower lip wobbles like she’s going to cry. 

Daryl looks at her sharply. “What’cha mean?”

The girl nods to indicate she’s willing to share what she remembers, then visibly braces herself for a trip down the unpleasant memory lane. She closes her eyes, opens it and breathes out, and Daryl’s never understood why ghosts do that, but they apparently don’t realize that they don’t need to breathe. Or they don’t care and just do it because it feels right. Hey, he’s not gonna judge. Everyone’s got habits that aren’t as easy to break. Maybe for the dead, breathing is like… like smoking, or drugs for the living. Maybe it makes them calm down and feel better.

“After… it happened,” the girl begins and shudders, “when I died. I was in a pitch black place for a while. There was nothing there that I could see. No people, no bodies, nothing. It was like a tomb. At the beginning, I thought I was still alive because it was pitch black when I was alive, too, but that didn’t last long. You know, it’s funny, because after the initial panic, I became so… weirdly calm about it. Like. Okay, so I’m dead, now what?” She looks at Daryl with piercing eyes, like she’s directing the question to him and almost expecting him to answer. He shrugs in response. How’s he supposed to know? Just because he sees dead people doesn’t mean he has any more of an idea than anyone about what comes after their business is done.

“Anyway, I didn’t stay in that dark place for too long. Something shifted, it felt like a very sudden lurch on a Ferris Wheel ride, you know? And then I was suddenly somewhere else. In my family home. With… with my daddy, and my mom, and my sister and brothers,” the girl bites her lips and her puffy eyes well up with fresh tears. “They don’t know I’m dead. They’re still looking for me. They’re still hoping, and it’s awful. It’s keeping them awake at night, it won’t let them rest. Won’t let _ me _ rest.”

Even before she speaks her request, Daryl already knows what it’s going to be. Still, he lets her say it in a soft, pleading tone:

“Will you please help them find me?”

He doesn’t reply immediately. He pours hot water into the mug with chocolate powder, stirs it with a plastic spoon he swiped off a coffee stand in the mall, and scratches at his stubbly chin. He licks the leftover lumps of powder off the spoon and puts it back on the counter, right next to the ghost girl’s semi-transparent, denim-clad butt. 

He takes a sip of the chocolate - it’s pretty awful, much worse than it would’ve been with milk - and asks, “What’s yer name, missy?”

She seems confused for a second before replying, “Beth. I’m Beth Greene.”

Daryl nods. “Alright, Beth Greene. We’re gonna find ya so’s yer folks can put ya to rest.”

He doesn’t drop the mug when the girl wraps herself around him in a hug, but it’s a close thing. When he takes another sip from the mug after she lets go, the chocolate is icy cold. 

Fuck his life.

*

How in fresh hell he’s managed to avoid knowing about Beth Greene’s disappearance so far, Daryl has no idea whatsoever. 

It’s everywhere. In the news feeds, on every fucking TV channel, in the papers. He finds her face staring at him from milk cartons when he goes to the convenience store to pick up some groceries with whatever money he’s got left. There are announcements on the radio every fifteen minutes that the family is offering a reward. It’s a real high-profile disappearance case, and everyone seems to be having their own excellent theories on the girl’s whereabouts.

“Girls that age, they don’t wanna be home with their mommies, they never do. They’s all hussies, always panting after boys, always with their short skirts and red lips,” an elderly woman behind Daryl in the line to the register announces loudly. Her all-knowing, derogatory tone grates on Daryl’s nerves, and he finds himself strangely irate on Beth’s behalf even though he’s known the ghost girl for less than two hours until now. He says nothing, just narrows his eyes and purses his lips to stop himself from snapping at the old bat. 

Another woman, visibly close in age to the first one, speaks up as well: “She’s probably out on a bender with some older boys. She’s nothing good, that girl, always making eyes at the farm hands. Just like her sister. She’ll be back by Thanksgiving, and she’s gonna have a bastard in her belly too, you mind my words.”

Daryl doesn’t mind her words. He rolls his eyes and moves slowly to the front of the queue. Beth looks at the old women with a seething sort of anger on her pretty face.

“That’s Donna Fairchild, her husband worked for my daddy,” she says. “I hate when people are like that. Always so kind to your face, but once your back’s turned… And I bet they’re both all nice and sweet to my folks in church,” she huffs. Then she jumps onto the counter and shouts to the entire store in general: “I hate you all, you fake stupid pricks!”

Daryl chuckles under his breath, rolling his eyes at the girl’s theatrics. In his experience, ghosts are generally happy to go for dramatic gestures, no matter how meaningless. The sense of propriety is one of the things they lose upon dying, but it’s not something they tend to miss about being alive.

The elderly woman behind him glares at Daryl’s amusement. “Well of course, it’s all games and giggles to a no-good piece of trash like you, isn’t it! Who knows, maybe the girl was really kidnapped! Maybe _ your kind _kidnapped her, even! Now just you wait, I’m going to have a long nice chat with the new deputy-”

“Don’t care,” Daryl interrupts, not overly interested in the old hag’s theories or her potential chats with the local police. It’s his turn at the register. He winces at the total, because he’s always surprised at how much stuff costs, and then he hands the cashier almost all that’s left of his meager savings. He’s going to need to go hunting soon if he doesn’t want to starve. At least it’s not too cold yet, there’s bound to still be some game in the woods. He’s lucky the factory had the decency not to make him redundant in the middle of winter.

He grabs his sad little bag of supplies and leaves the store, Beth following suit. She makes sure to pass right through the two old ladies, which Daryl knows from experience is a very unpleasant thing for a living person; it’s like walking into a cold water current in an otherwise warm stream, or like pressing an ice cube to overheated skin. It’s the sort of freezing cold which makes hot chocolate turn into chocolate ice cream within an instant. 

“They’re so stupid,” the girl announces with a frown.

Daryl shrugs. “Most people are,” he agrees and heads to the parking lot where he left his truck. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s actually somewhat bothered by the accusations. He knew people were talking shit about him, it was always part of being a Dixon in this town, but he didn’t think they thought him capable of hurting a young girl. He never gave them any reason to consider him anything but a lonesome outcast. He tried not to interact beyond the occasional job hunting or store runs. He kept to himself, didn’t bother anybody and never did so much as look twice at anybody’s wife, daughter or sister. Yet here they were, accusing Daryl of kidnapping Beth Greene - and to his face, nonetheless. 

He hates this fucking town.

“So wha’cha wanna do?” He asks, climbing into the driver’s seat of the truck. Beth slides gracefully into the passenger seat with the door still closed on her side. “How’re we gonna start this shit? Anythin’ useful ya remember?”

“I was walking home from church when I was taken,” Beth says, then makes a thoughtful sound. “I think it was somewhere near the Leaky Mill. You know where that is, right?”

Of course Daryl knows. He was born and raised in these parts. Even if he was never much of a social butterfly, he’s well aware of the local landmarks and their nicknames. The Leaky Mill, for example, is neither leaky nor a mill. It’s actually a desolate silos somebody stuck a vaguely fan-shaped construction onto so it’s somewhat windmill-shaped. It gets regularly flooded in late winter to early spring and late summer to early fall, which is the reason for the first half of its name. 

If Beth was taken from that area, that gives Daryl a specific time frame when it might’ve happened. That’s something. A start.

“Milk carton’s sayin’ you went missin’ in September,” he notes, “but it ain’t right. September twenty-third, whole area woulda been underwater, like a foot deep. Wouldn’a gone walkin’ from church in yer nice Sunday dress through there.”

“You think I’m lying?” Beth asks, perplexed.

“Naw,” Daryl assures. “There’s two options, way I see it. Either you’s just confused, what with the dyin’ an’ all, or someone’s lyin’ ‘bout when you was taken to confuse the pigs.”

“But, wouldn’t that mean my parents? I mean, I’m sure they were the ones who reported it when I went missing,” Beth says. “And they really want me found. I saw them, remember? You can’t fake that kind of worry.”

Daryl doesn’t have the heart to tell her anything can be faked because he doesn’t really think her parents have anything to do with the kidnapping or the hiding of the true date. In all honesty, he might be grasping at straws here. The area around the Leaky Mill is large, Beth might’ve been able to find a dry path even in the second half of September if she went down the southern part of the meadows. He’ll need a local map. It might be worthwhile to retrace her steps on that day, to the best of their knowledge. 

The library, then. 

*

“So, do you get visits from ghosts often?” Beth asks in a very cheerful tone for someone who’s dead and likely has died in very gruesome circumstances. She’s sitting cross-legged, floating a few inches above the table where Daryl’s studying his photocopied map. 

“Often enough,” Daryl replies absent-mindedly. He marks the approximate location of the Leaky Mill on the map with a pen he borrowed at the front desk. A highlighter would be better, but they didn’t have any and there’s no way he’s going to waste the last of the money he has on something so stupid. “Which church y’all gone to?”

Beth points to a marker on the map. The Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Fuck, but that’s a mouthful; snorting, Daryl marks the church with a circle. 

“Here’s my daddy’s farm, where I was going,” Beth adds, pointing to an area without any big markers. Daryl circles it with the pen and then looks at the possible routes which would include all his markers. There are at least three potential paths.

“I guess we gonna hafta go an’ see,” Daryl says with a sigh. He hoped he wouldn’t have to do much legwork. It’s been getting chilly and his jacket has seen better days. “Not sure if the flood’s coverin’ same areas it did in September, but we’re gonna see. Might be able to approximate from mud remnants an’ shit. Then we may know which path ya were taken from.”

“You do this a lot, don’t you?” Beth asks, smiling. “Helping people like me.”

“Yup,” Daryl agrees. “Usually them’s not as interestin’ though. Just want me to say shit to theirs kids, watch ‘em graduate, shit like that. Been to a stranger’s wedding ‘cause her mamma wanted to see her girl in her white dress. Been to a dude’s funeral ‘cause he was a son of a bitch in life an’ nobody else showed, made him real depressed. This’ the first time I’m investigatin’ someone’s death.”

Beth smiles. “Was it scary, at first?” 

“What, seein’ ghosts?” Daryl asks, then chuckles. “Nah. Been seein’ ‘em since I was real little. Ain’t known what I’s seein’, but it ain’t never been scary.”

“I would’ve been scared if I’d seen a ghost,” Beth admits, shaking her head. “I still would be! Do you think we’ll meet other ghosts soon? Can you even see more than one at a time?”

Daryl scoffs. “‘Course I can,” he says, “but yer not gonna, I don’t think. Ya couldn’a seen ‘em alive, means yer not gonna be able to see ‘em dead, either. ‘s how it works.”

He’s not sure of the exact mechanics behind it, but the truth is, ghosts are as unaware of the presence of other ghosts as living people are. Daryl’s had the opportunity to observe a couple, a wife and a husband who both died at approximately the same time. They both came to him with their unfinished businesses, but they didn’t see or even sense each other. Daryl had to act as their middleman and it was awful because apparently, their respective unfinished businesses entailed confessing to multiple instances of adultery, one at a time. From both sides. In excruciating detail. 

At least he got a real nice crossbow out of it, courtesy of the husband who thought he deserved a reward for his service. It was locked away in a small cabin in the woods which served the late man as a place he went to have his affairs at while his wife thought he was going away for work. That crossbow saved Daryl’s life many times when he was literally too poor to buy food and hunting was the only option. It will probably save him again very soon. 

“Do you think there’s a Heaven or Hell? Or anything at all?” Beth asks. Her voice sounds small, worried. 

Daryl looks up from his map. “Sure,” he says, “dunno what, but there must be. Don’cha worry. Good girl like ya, yer probly goin’ straight to Heaven or, y’know, whatever nice place equivalent there is.”

The words make Beth smile. “You’re trying to act tough and unlikeable, but you’re really a softie, aren’t you? I’m onto you, Daryl Dixon.”

And isn’t that just the shit.

*

The Leaky Mill’s located smack dab in the middle of a large meadow that used to be part of a large farmland, but has become wildly overgrown with weeds since the death of its original owner brought about almost three decades of disputes between his multiple heirs. Daryl doesn’t know how much the land was worth at the beginning, but he’s pretty sure nowadays it’s not exactly prime real estate, what with the regular flooding and all. It’s because of the dam built some ten years ago, more or less. The land can’t be used for farming shit anymore, not unless someone wants to make it a rice plantation or something. The only remainder of the farm which used to be here is the ruined silos and the wild chickens running about in summer. Daryl comes around here sometimes to hunt. It's a good place to find rabbits and squirrels. Not deer, though, but it's fine, Daryl doesn't usually need to hunt deer anyway. Too much meat for one dude, even if it's his only source of nutrition. Anyway, if he searches really closely, he is still able to find some carrots and cabbages among the plant life in the meadows. He even found potatoes last year.

So the thing is, he knows the lay of the land a little. In his opinion, there are three roads Beth could’ve taken from the church to go past the Leaky Mill. The northernmost path is paved with cobblestone and it’s sometimes used by farmers from the area as a shortcut to the market. Right now, it’s almost completely impassable because most of it is still underwater. Judging from the smell, Daryl surmises the water’s been standing there for at least a few weeks. He’s pretty sure Beth didn’t go through here. Not unless she was wearing very high-reaching rain boots. The gravel path to the west a ways, on the other hand, is almost dry, though the layers of moss on the gravel and everywhere around seem to suggest there used to be a lot of humidity not too long ago. Still, Daryl can’t completely exclude the possibility Beth was going through here. He marks the path on the map with a dotted line. 

The winding dirt road south of the Leaky Mill looks the most promising, even though it would’ve made for the longest route back to the Greene farm. There’s no moss and the dirt surface doesn’t show any signs of mud carried over from anywhere else. It’s damp in a way that indicates it rained here within the last two days, but not in a way suggesting the area was flooded. 

Daryl marks this road on the map with a straight line and shows it to Beth.

“Any memories?”

She shakes her head, looking around without any specific focus. “It could have been around here, but I’m not sure,” she says apologetically. “I wasn’t looking, to be honest. It was a nice afternoon, with really pretty clouds. I was looking at the sky.”

“So it definitely wasn’t September twenty-third,” Daryl decides with a frown. He remembers that particular Sunday because it was when he was given the slip at the factory. The whole day was rainy and cold. His truck didn’t start that morning, so he went both to and from work on foot. The dark, heavy clouds weren’t pretty that afternoon, not by any stretch of imagination. No girl in her right mind would’ve walked through the fields on a day like that, either, especially not if she knew of the area’s tendency to become flooded. 

The dates on the milk cartons were fabricated. Realizing this, Daryl suddenly becomes aware that this time, helping a ghost might be biting much more than he can chew. 

“What does it mean, Daryl? Why is there a fake date of my disappearance in the news?” Beth asks, and there’s a worried expression on her pretty face. “And why aren’t my parents doing anything about it?”

Daryl shakes his head. He doesn’t have the answers to these questions, not yet. He just hopes he will, eventually.


	2. Sleeping With Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl learns new facts and meets the new deputy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting. Real life got to me. Not to worry, this story will still be finished and posted in its entirety before Halloween :)

The first time Daryl saw a ghost and understood what he was seeing was when he was some eight years old. His mother had just died in the fire she probably caused all by herself, according to the firemen. On the same night when she died, a few hours later when everyone was already asleep, she came to the motel room Merle left Daryl before he took off… wherever it was he took off to. She didn’t look any different from when she was alive; she was wearing the same t-shirt and sweatpants combo she always did, her hair was just as untamed and dirty, and she had an unlit cigarette tucked behind her ear. There was absolutely nothing about her to give Daryl a clue. She looked normal. 

Only, she smiled.

“My boy,” she said, sweet and pleasant, like she usually sounded when she needed Daryl to do something for her, like steal her a pack of cigarettes or fetch her a bottle of bourbon from downstairs. She spoke with a lisp because she didn’t have two of her front teeth, she broke them when she fell off a ladder in a drunken stupor a few years before Daryl was born. It made the words sound hissy. “I always knew you’s special. Mommy’s lil’ angel, ain’cha?”

“Ma,” eight-year-old Daryl said, and his eyes filled with tears. He wasn’t relieved at the sight of his mother. He wasn’t sad either, just scared. A few hours earlier, he saw her burn as she banged at the closed window in her upstairs bedroom, and the glass just wouldn’t give. Even through the horrible roaring noise of the fire, he still heard her screams muffled by the which would stay with him forever in his deepest nightmares; and yet, now here she stood in front of him in the middle of the night, all fine and unscathed, looking at him through her pale blue eyes and acting like she actually cared about him at all. 

“Ma, yer dead,” he told her, trying to back himself into the relative safety of the blankets on the bed. Because good boys stayed in bed, and he wanted to be a good boy; nothing bad ever happened to good boys in the stories Merle sometimes told him when he couldn’t sleep.

His mother’s smile widened and widened, and then widened again until it didn’t resemble a smile anymore. It looked like a cut or a tear in the skin of her face, from one ear to the other, and inside of the cut were teeth. Tens and hundreds of teeth. Teeth upon teeth upon teeth, sharp, jagged, like shattered pieces of glass from a broken beer bottle.

“I’m dead? Yes… I’m dead,” she agreed. “An’s ‘cause a ya… so yer gonna join me,” she said, but she didn’t sound like Daryl’s mom anymore. She sounded hollow, like when the wind is trapped inside of an empty room, or like an echo of someone’s voice in the mountains that reverberates and reverberates until it causes an avalanche.

She took a step towards the bed, then another, and then she walked through the bed and Daryl had nowhere to back away to. One of her hands - clawed now, and cold, and barely human-like at all, more like an owl’s - reached out and grasped his forearm, and Daryl whimpered in pain. It burned! He struggled against the grip, he kicked at the creature to no avail; somehow, he didn’t even know how, he managed to free himself, but the apparition that used to be his mother didn’t let up. She lunged at him, and Daryl rolled away at the last moment, barely evading the teeth-upon-teeth-upon-teeth. He grabbed the first thing he saw - a salt shaker, of all things - and threw it at the ghost, and he almost pissed himself when the glass shaker shattered against the wall after flying through her. But all of a sudden, in a burst of dark smoke, with a shrill, wrathful shriek, the ghost disappeared.

Daryl didn’t took his chances, though, he didn’t wait until it reappeared and killed him. He grabbed his backpack with the only belongings he had left after the house burned down - a hunting knife, a change of underwear, a single sandwich Merle bought him at the gas station, and a book on edible mushrooms, of all things - and he slid out the window, down the rain trough, before he ran towards the woods. 

Mother didn’t follow him outside. Actually, Daryl never saw her again. He wasn’t at her funeral, he was still keeping to the woods at the time it went down. He was convinced the only reason she didn’t come after him was, his mother was always afraid of the woods, of the creaking of old trees and the screeching of owls, and all those other sounds. He only learned much later that what remained of her body was cremated on that same night when she showed up in the motel, probably soon after he had his encounter with the ghost. It wasn’t until even later, he found out from an old journal in the local library that burning the remains is basically the only way to get rid of a nasty ghost for good. He also found a vague but viable explanation of why the salt shaker probably saved his life: salt purifies.

That night when he was eight years old, all alone, confused and scared after bearing witness to his mother’s horrible death: it was his first encounter with a vengeful spirit. It left him with a severe hatred of motels, a big handprint-shaped burn scar on his forearm and a superstitious habit of keeping salt within an arm’s reach at all times. 

*

Dealing with Beth Greene’s murder mystery is a bigger pile of crap than Daryl knows how to paddle through, honestly, and he’s sincerely reconsidering all of his life choices.

After the realization at the Leaky Mill, things get even further complicated when it turns out Beth was a choir girl. Daryl finds out about it almost by accident: once he returns to the library with his new knowledge he needs to sort out, he overhears a tall man talking to a woman with short gray hair. Both of them are teachers in the local high school. Daryl knows them both in passing. The woman is from here, born and raised, and she’s only been a teacher for the last few years. She started after her husband went to prison, used to be a housewife before. The man, on the other hand, is not originally from Georgia, though his family moved here from Virginia or somewhere, some twenty or so years ago. He used to be one of the jocks who would’ve bullied Daryl at school if he ever even attended. The guy’s currently the coach of half of the sports teams at the school, and sometimes he volunteers to oversee the choir practice at the something-something of Jesus church Beth attended, in place of his wife who apparently gets sick fairly often. Rumor has it, he also cheats on his wife a whole lot of the time.

“She had the voice of a fucking angel, that little Beth Greene,” the man says and Daryl listens more closely, trying to avoid getting caught listening. He can’t afford looking suspicious, not when half of the town probably already thinks he’s guilty of  _ something,  _ because he’s a Dixon so obviously he’s the bad guy _ . _

“We all knew something was wrong when she missed choir practice,” the teacher adds wistfully. “It was out of character, you know? She never used to even come late before.”

“I think we shouldn’t talk about her like she’s dead, Mr. Negan,” the woman replies sternly. Unlike the gossiping old coots Daryl met in the store earlier, she actually sounds worried as she goes on: “But you’re right… it was strange. I had her in my English class and she was so enthusiastic about everything. Skipping something she obviously loves doesn’t sound like her at all.”

The two leave soon after that and Daryl’s left at the desk he’s occupying with his map and a stack of newspapers from the last few weeks. His mind is sort of reeling with the new information, a question at the forefront of it as if it’s written in bolded letters: who the fuck schedules choir practice on Sundays? Unfortunately, Beth’s not with him right now; she’s gone to check on her family, which Daryl doesn’t mind, except that he has no way to ask about the whole missed practice thing. Beth didn’t mention anything like that. It might be nothing, just a coincidence, a good girl acting out - but it might be a clue. 

Daryl writes it down. He checks the calendar to establish the layout of the week ending on Sunday, September the twenty-third. There’s nothing important in the local papers about any particular day of that week, except for maybe the mention of a planned bake sale in the Jesus-something church to gather funds for a new sound system. The short note has a picture of the choir, with a smiling Beth standing at the forefront with two other girls. What catches Daryl’s attention about the photo is that in it, Beth is wearing the same combo of jeans, t-shirt and denim jacket she is still wearing now, as a ghost. Confused but convinced it’s important, Daryl makes a copy of the page and marks down the date: Friday, September the twenty-first.

If Beth was taken on Sunday returning home from church, why is she still dressed in the outfit from the Friday paper? When was the photo taken? Was it taken specifically for the paper, or did the church provide a photo from the archives which just coincidentally features Beth wearing the same clothes she apparently died in later?

Actually, the clothes are an element Daryl’s been finding strange from the start. The thing is, ghosts aren’t capable of changing into different clothes after death. They always appear dressed in what they died wearing, which in this case creates a weird dissonance: a good Christian girl like Beth wouldn’t have been wearing jeans to church on a Sunday, yet that’s definitely what she died in. 

What if the truth is not that she wasn’t taken on Sunday the twenty-third, like the Leaky Mill revelation suggests, but that she actually wasn’t taken on a Sunday at all? 

It’s a possibility worth considering. Daryl marks Friday in his week layout with a question mark, then decides that’s it, he’s got everything he can potentially find in the library. He doesn’t think he’s got any change left to make copies of anything else, anyway, so he packs up his papers and heads on out. Once he’s outside, he rummages through his pockets in search of a cigarette because he’s sure there should be one left. He finds it in the backpack, only slightly crumpled, and sighs when he remembers his old Zippo lighter’s out of gas. He hates asking random people for a light. 

Shaking his head, Daryl tucks the cigarette behind his ear and walks back to his truck. Of course, as luck would have it, there’s a parking ticket stuck behind the windshield even though he’s pretty sure he was parking correctly. Shit, it’s not like he has money anyway. Rolling his eyes, he crumples the ticket and throws it on the backseat, then gets in from the passenger’s side - it doesn’t open from the driver’s side, not after he had to weld it shut when both hinges broke from being rusted through. He closes the door, slides to the driver’s seat and puts the keys in the ignition.

“C’mon,” he groans when the engine won’t start. It happens a lot, the truck’s as old as he is if not older by a few months, so it really shouldn’t be surprising that it acts out from time to time. But today, Daryl’s got no patience for this shit. It’s like the whole world’s suddenly acting out against him. Seriously, what he really needs right now is for the sky to open and it to start raining.

As if a higher power was listening to his thoughts, there’s a rumble of thunder in the distance. Out of all possible days for a thunderstorm, of course it’s going to happen right now when Daryl is actually outside for a change instead of moping at home, isn’t it? 

Sighing in defeat, he gets out of the car in an awkward stumble back through the seats, and opens the hood. Nothing seems obviously broken, he can’t see anything that would be a likely cause for the engine not to start, so he supposes the problem is with the ignition system itself. Daryl knows how to fix it, of course, but it’s going to have to wait. He takes a quick glance around the parking lot, checking if it’s as empty as he needs it to be. Confirming there’s nobody there, he removes the cover on the steering column and gets to work. 

Hotwiring a car isn’t what Hollywood makes it out to be. Namely, it’s not something that requires any kind of special skill whatsoever. Sure, maybe if you do that shit commercially, as in when you’re a car thief; Daryl supposes when it’s gotta be done real quick, it might be useful to have agile fingers and shit. But hotwiring an old truck at the parking lot because the piece of crap won’t start - well, that doesn’t require any finesse at all, just some basic knowledge about a car’s layout, which wire is which, that sort of thing. And Daryl knows this. He worked at the local garage for three years before the place closed up. The owner, Dale, he was the one who taught Daryl about hotwiring, since it was useful in some of the jobs did on the cars. Good man. Pity he moved away to Atlanta for his final years. He even offered to let Daryl buy the garage, but Daryl decided not to, even though he probably could have gotten the loan at the bank at that time in his life. The thing is, the people in town wouldn’t have come to the place if it was his, so what would’ve been the point? And so, the garage closed up and Daryl eventually found work elsewhere. But he still remembers how to hotwire an old truck, even if the damn piece of crap sure takes its sweet time.

After a couple of minutes or so, just when Daryl finally thinks the truck might be on its way to cooperating, there’s an unfamiliar voice coming from a few feet away:

“Step away from the car, please.” 

It’s filled with the sort of casual, calm authority of somebody used to people following orders. None of the local cops that Daryl knows talk like that; they’re all these burly alpha male types who feel the need to assert their dominance with loudmouth taunts and sneering jabs. This voice is different. There’s no contempt in the way the man speaks, all drawled vowels and sharp consonants. The town is in Georgia, yes, but nobody here talks like this. Daryl’s aware they all have the same backwoods accents here, with varying degrees of grammar butchery, but this guy? Whoever he is, he sounds like a middle-class city-boy in a Hollywood movie. And he clearly has no idea who Daryl is, because if he had, he either wouldn’t have interacted - everybody knows Daryl’s old damn truck around here - or he wouldn’t have talked. Cops around these parts are more likely to preemptively beat him up before they even try to pin some petty crime on him that they know he didn’t commit. It’s just how it is.

“Sir? I need you to step away from the car,” the man repeats, a little closer now.

Daryl does as asked. He doesn’t want to risk getting beat up anyways. This dude doesn’t sound like the cops from here, but it doesn’t mean he’s not going to be violent and Daryl’s simply not willing to risk it. His day - week? Hell, this whole month - has been bad enough as it is without an undeserved beating to add to it. 

“Steppin’ away,” he announces and lifts his hands so they’re visible as he very slowly turns to face the cop. “‘s my piece of shit truck, though, ‘s got the papers inside,” he adds, motioning to the driver’s side. 

He finally looks up at the cop, and -  _ fuck _ . 

The man’s about the same height as him, but leaner, less broad in the shoulders. He’s dressed like the deputies around here, so he must be the new guy people have been chattering about. His legs are bowed, which is a weird thing to notice, but Daryl notices anyway; he also notices how the guy’s hair is curling slightly at the nape of his neck, and he’s got enough of a stubble to make him look the right amount of manly without making him seem unkempt. The first thing he notices, however, is not any of this. It’s his eyes. His fucking blue eyes, piercing and soulful and whatever other poetic adjective makes its way through his mind in the seconds he has to look at the stranger.

_ Yep, still hella gay, _ Daryl decides and has to force himself not to openly stare at the man in front of him. It’s difficult because the new deputy… well, he’s damn beautiful, the sort of gorgeous that’s got no business being a small-town cop in the middle of nowhere in Georgia. That, coupled with that classy drawl, the bowed legs… Daryl wouldn’t mind getting to know this particular cop better. 

_ Not gonna happen, _ he reminds himself firmly and waits as the deputy circles the car and attempts to open the driver’s side door. The man fights the opposing door for a good two minutes and Daryl doesn’t say anything; he wouldn’t offer help to any other cop, so naturally the new deputy won’t be getting any special treatment just because he’s so pretty. Unless it’s in bed. Daryl would treat him real fucking special in bed.

Damn it. “Door don’t open that side. You gotta grab ‘em papers through here,” he announces. Not to put the cop out of his misery, but to save himself. He’s quite sure if he doesn’t get out of here soon, he’s going to do something extremely stupid. 

The deputy returns to Daryl’s side of the car, gives him a clearly half-hearted glare, and pushes past him inside. He finds the papers, sweeps through them quickly, compares the photo in Daryl’s license to what he looks like now. Then he nods to himself, puts the documents back where he found them and takes a step back.

“Apologies for this, Mr. Dixon,” he says solemnly.

“‘s fine,” Daryl mutters, shrugging like it’s no big deal. He’s good at feigning indifference after years of dealing with his worthless father, and it works even now, while inside he’s seriously flustered. “Can I go now?” 

The cop gives him a smile which literally boils Daryl’s insides. How can a normal, vaguely friendly smile be like… that? It should be illegal. This deputy, he should be illegal. What Daryl wants to do to him definitely is, at least right here and now.

“Yeah, you’re free to go… Unless you need a ride?”

_ Fuck yeah, I’d ride ya all night long,  _ is what Daryl thinks in reply but doesn’t say out loud. At least he hopes he doesn’t. His mouth doesn’t usually run away from him, but then again he doesn’t usually meet men who make him weak in the knees just by giving him a polite look.

The roll of the thunder, when it comes again, sounds much closer than before. It’s accompanied by the wind picking up, and there are rain clouds approaching fast from the south. Daryl groans, realizing he’s probably not going to be able to get home before the downpour. Still,

“Ain’t need no help,” he says unconvincingly.

The deputy frowns. “You sure?” He asks, then scratches at his stubbly chin, looking sheepish. “I know I ain’t made the best first impression, but. Maybe we can fix that?” He smiles again, holds out his hand to shake. “I’m Rick Grimes. New deputy in the King County Sheriff’s Department.”

“Daryl Dixon,” Daryl mumbles, feeling stupid for saying this when the deputy already knows. Still, he shakes the man’s hand even though normally he’d rather shy away from a stranger’s touch. Deputy Grimes’ hand is warm and calloused, and his grip is firm but not too strong. He’s so unlike the other cops around here who always act like they have something to prove, it’s a wonder they haven’t driven him away back where he came from yet. 

“I, uh, just gotta go home before the rain,” Daryl adds, then motions vaguely at the sky. “You ain’t gotta help me. ‘s better if ya don’t. Ain’t exactly Mister Popular in this here town,” he warns, shrugging. 

“I don’t really care,” Deputy Grimes replies. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift. Then you can call for a tow company or something.”

Daryl rolls his eyes; if Grimes thinks he has the kind of money to afford having the truck towed, he’s clearly not very familiar with the town at all just yet. Must not have heard much about the Dixons anyway, if he’s this nice to Daryl despite knowing his name.

The first fat droplets of rain start falling just as Daryl’s about to decline help for the third time. Without waiting for what Daryl has to say, Deputy Grimes pushes the door to Daryl’s truck closed, grabs Daryl by the wrist and tugs him towards the police cruiser parked just around the corner. It’s surprising even to Daryl himself how easily he lets himself be manhandled inside the cruiser and onto its passenger seat. He doesn’t even protest once, too dumbstruck by what’s going on to gather his wits about him. Also, turned on. Which is bad, but it’s not like he can help it. He was manhandled by a seriously hot dude. The question is, who wouldn’t be turned on?

“Am I bein’ arrested?” He asks eventually, when the deputy gets inside the car on the other side, closes the door and doesn’t even start the engine for several minutes.

Grimes looks at him strangely. “What? No,” he promises. “No, you’re not under arrest. Just gonna give you a lift. Where to?”

Daryl sighs, then tells the man his address. The deputy still doesn’t start the car, though, he just keeps looking at Daryl sort of quizzically. Finally, he seems to come to a decision. He turns the key in the ignition - there’s an engine that knows how to cooperate, Daryl observes, spiteful towards his old truck - and he concentrates on the road as he drives. The silence between them during the ride isn’t exactly uneasy, like it usually happens to be between total strangers stuck in a car together. It’s actually sort of comfortable. Daryl watches the man discreetly when he’s sure the deputy is completely focused on the task at hand. He notices things he didn’t notice before: a small stain on the collar of the man’s shirt, a very tiny scar on his neck just where the scruff of his stubble ends - from shaving maybe? - and then, finally, the simple gold band around the ring finger of his right hand.

_ Right hand. A widower, _ his mind supplies helpfully. Daryl only knows that because one of the ghosts he met before wore his wedding band like that, to commemorate his long-lost wife, and he really liked to explain it. Repeatedly. For days, multiple times. The Alzheimer’s he had at the time of death probably didn’t help.

If Rick Grimes is a widower, then Daryl has his confirmation: there’s no chance in hell he’s ever going to get into the pretty cop’s pants, so he might as well get over this… this  _ crush, _ right now and save himself the heartache later. He’s got shit to do, anyways. A murder mystery to solve, a girl’s remains to find. He sure as fuck has enough on his plate as is, without stupidly handsome men meddling in his affairs. 

Speaking of things to do:

“How’s it goin’, then, if ya don’t mind me askin’? With the lost girl. Beth somethin’,” Daryl asks, tone as inconspicuous as he can make himself sound. Like he’s just curious. Everyone is curious about the disappearance, after all, so why not him?

“Beth Greene,” Grimes says. He sighs. “I can’t talk about it. But, just so you know, we’ve received some anonymous tips you might be involved somehow, Mr. Dixon.”

Daryl scoffs. “Ain’t,” he assures. “Also, don’t gotta call me Mister Dixon.”

“Daryl, then,” the deputy acquiesces. “You can call me Rick. Anyway. Got an anonymous tip you were seen with the girl before she was taken-”

“Bullshit,” Daryl announces. “Never even seen her before. And anyway, ain’t got no reason to kidnap some teen girl. Got enough shit goin’ on, man.”

Grimes doesn’t reply, just hums softly, seemingly deep in thought. The rest of the ride passes without any further conversation. Daryl finds some willpower to look outside the window at the rainy townscape instead of stealing more not-so-subtle glances at the new deputy. It’s only when they’re nearing Daryl’s place that he notices there’s someone on the backseat of the cruiser - a woman?

Only, when he turns to take a closer look, he’s met with empty air.

For a moment there, he thinks it could just have been Beth, but he dismisses the idea immediately. First of all, Beth wouldn’t have vanished as soon as he noticed her; and second, it felt all wrong. In Beth’s company, it’s like with everyone else; besides being dead, she’s just a regular person, with her quirky personality and her denim jacket. What Daryl saw on the backseat, well, that wasn’t a regular person. 

He wonders if there’s a way to discreetly spill salt all over someone’s car. 

“We’re here,” Rick reports as the cruiser slows to a stop in the driveway. “Will you be okay from here? Looks like it’s gonna be raining for hours.”

“What, yer worrying, Officer Friendly?” Daryl asks, smirking at the man. He doesn’t even have the time to silently curse himself for flirting because Deputy Grimes swiftly replies:

“Well, I might be. It would be a terrible waste if something happened to my favorite suspect, now wouldn’t it?” 

And if that’s not flirting right back, Daryl doesn’t know what that is. So ignoring his better judgement, he offers, “Ya could always come in, grab a beer with me. Or a tea, if yer still workin’. To, ya know, make sure I’mma be fine in the storm.”

And Deputy Rick Grimes, quite unexpectedly, accepts the invitation without hesitating a moment.

*

The old Dixon house is more like a weird mix between a cabin and a trailer, really, calling it a house is being generous. It’s only got one storey with a tiny kitchen, a living room where the TV is, a bathroom and three very small bedrooms, two of which are Daryl’s. One is where he usually sleeps. It’s where Beth found him this morning and where most of his things are. His other bedroom is for when he  _ really _ doesn’t want to be disturbed by anyone, dead or alive but especially dead; it’s lined with salt and the door and walls are discreetly adorned with iron, both of which are pretty efficient ghost repellents. That’s where he and Deputy Grimes eventually end up before the day is over.

Daryl doesn't even know how it happened; there were literally no clues leading up to this outcome. One moment, he was listening to Rick talking about going fishing with his young son, wondering how to approach the subject of his dead wife because he supposed she was what he’d seen at the back of the car earlier. The next moment, all of a sudden, the deputy was on him, kissing him hungrily so that the only thing Daryl could do was to kiss back. He sure as shit wasn’t going to complain though, and he still isn’t complaining when he’s on his back, pressed down against the mattress, his mouth full of Rick’s tongue and his pants undone. They’re both going too fast, uncoordinated, just sort of grinding against each other, but fuck if it doesn’t feel good; it’s been  _ years _ since Daryl’s had anyone’s hands on him in this manner and he  _ knows _ he isn’t going to last long. But the other man, the beautiful, gorgeous man doing wonderful things to him with his hands and his tongue, he seems pretty desperate as well, so maybe Daryl won’t be the only one embarrassing himself, and it won’t be embarrassing if they’re both doing it, and-

“Fuck!...” He groans when Rick slides his hand between them, under the waistband of Daryl’s jeans, past his underwear to wrap around his cock. 

The deputy makes a soft purring sound and kisses Daryl’s jaw just as he starts stroking in a leisurely rhythm. “You’re so Goddamn gorgeous, fuck,” he murmurs against Daryl’s skin. “You gotta tell me if I’m going too fast. You’ll tell me, won’t you, darlin’?”

Daryl nods his head frantically, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again because fuck him if he’s going to deprive himself of the view; but seriously, the low-spoken, drawled-out pet name was almost enough to make him come on the spot. Nobody’s ever talked to him like this. Moaning, hardly believing he’s even capable of making such a pitiful sound, he fights against Rick’s shirt buttons, attempting to divest the man of his shirt as soon as possible. If some buttons don’t make it, Rick doesn’t seem to care, busy as he is kissing alongside Daryl’s jaw and down his neck, lightly nipping on the sensitive skin with his teeth. He continues to stroke Daryl’s cock in that slow, almost torturous pace, and Daryl tries to thrust his hips into the caress but there’s not much room for movement. The shirt gone, Daryl buries his hand in the mass of dark chest hair he’s instantly fascinated with, the other hand traveling down Rick’s side. Rick makes a small noise of pleasure into the skin at Daryl’s collarbone and forcefully grinds down on Daryl’s thigh. 

“Clothes,” Daryl grits out, “get rid of ‘em,” and he pushes ineffectually at the waistband of Rick’s uniform slacks. Groaning in reply, the deputy disentangles himself from Daryl’s arms for the brief moment it takes him to unbutton and push down his pants which go together with his boxers. He does the same for Daryl, pulls his pants and briefs down past his thighs and licks his lips at the sight he gets in reward. Daryl sadly doesn’t get to look upon him in all of his glory for long, because Rick swiftly dives back into a searing kiss, swallowing the noise Daryl can’t hold in when their dicks touch without the constraint of clothing for the first time. The skin-on-skin contact feels heavenly, even more so when Rick wraps his hand around both their cocks and strokes in that same slow, controlled rhythm from before, apparently intent on driving Daryl crazy with need before the night’s end. His kiss is hard and demanding, his tongue mirroring the movement of his hand, and Daryl feels like he’s going to explode if it goes on like this, he’s going to die, he’s going to-

Rick uses his free hand to guide Daryl’s thighs to open as wide as he can with the jeans pulled down, and Daryl doesn’t hesitate a second. Right now, he’s ready to let this man do anything he wants, as long as Rick doesn’t stop; so when Rick pulls away from the kiss, Daryl lets out a sort-of whiny protest which has the deputy chuckle softly before he quickly slides down Daryl’s body and, without further ado, wraps his pretty lips around the tip of Daryl’s cock. 

If until now Daryl thought it was a first time out of curiosity for the cop, he’s now absolutely sure it’s not the case because there’s simply no way a newbie would be this good at sucking cock. And Rick’s  _ good. _ More than. At first he just mouths at the tip, sort of like he’s kissing it, before he uses his tongue to chase the heavy beads of precome along the vein on the underside; Daryl tries to tell him to get on with it, but Rick seems rather adamant to continue teasing him for a while longer. He plants little kisses all along the length as he works his way back up to the tip. Finally, he takes it into his mouth, but he doesn’t do anything, just lets Daryl’s cock rest on his tongue like it’s chocolate candy and he’s waiting for it to melt. 

“Rick,” Daryl groans insistently, tangling his hands into the longer, curling hair at the nape of Rick’s neck. He resists the urge to push the man down onto his cock, but his fingers twitching, tightening into fists in his hair must be indication enough of what Daryl wants because Rick looks up at him, a glint in his eyes that seems vaguely like amusement, and then takes all of him in his mouth as far as it’s possible. What he can’t fit in, he starts stroking with his fingers, slick from the mix of his saliva and Daryl’s precome. 

“Fuckin’- fuck, Rick, fuck,” Daryl moans, noises escaping unbidden from him as he thrusts up into the tight heat all around him, and Rick lets him, lets Daryl fuck his mouth, relaxing his throat like he’s got no gag reflex whatsoever, humming his own pleasure around his mouthful. From then, it goes embarrassingly fast; Rick swallows around him, once or twice, like he’s trying to get used to the thick length in his mouth, and Daryl pushes in a few more times, hands tightening in Rick’s hair, lips parted on a string of curses - and then, there, right there-

He actually thinks he might’ve blacked out for a second from the force of his orgasm. When he manages to open his eyes, breathing still too fast, heartbeat still too frantic, Rick is right there against him, kissing him forcefully like he’s afraid Daryl would reject him after where his mouth just was. But Daryl wouldn’t; he doesn’t mind the taste of himself in the kiss, definitely not right now when his entire body is thrumming with the aftershocks of pleasure. But Rick is still hard, he notes, and it would be awfully rude of Daryl not to return the favor; he wraps his hand around the deputy’s cock and strokes a little roughly. Rick continues to kiss him as Daryl works him over, he thrusts his hips into the caress, setting the rhythm: fast, unforgiving, bordering on desperate, and his blunt fingernails dig into the skin at Daryl’s hips; Daryl rolls them over, pushing Rick into the mattress and taking control of the kiss, biting and licking into Rick’s mouth as he jerks him off in much the same fashion he’d do himself. Rick moans, his hands slide up to cup Daryl’s ass; he squeezes, groaning again, and moves his hips up one last time before he spills all over Daryl’s hand and both their abdomens. 

The kiss they share naturally becomes softer, slower, less about release and more about something like gratitude. Finally, Daryl draws away and rolls onto his back by Rick’s side. He looks up at the ceiling and exhales loudly. He wouldn’t mind a smoke right now.

“How’d ya figure to do that, man?” He asks, and he’s surprised at the tone of lazy amusement in his voice. Fuck, but he’s more relaxed than he’s been in a long time. 

Rick chuckles. “Took a risk,” he admits. His voice sounds deep and hoarse, probably from the professional quality blowjob he just gave. It makes Daryl’s cock twitch valiantly. How can the man be so damn sexy? It’s unfair to the rest of the populace.

“Loved the payoff,” the deputy adds with a smirk as he blatantly checks out Daryl’s body sprawled out on the bed. 

Daryl rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment. He’s too fucking content to pretend he’s not loving every second of this comfortable post-orgasmic peace. With his shoulder pressed against Rick’s, even through the thin layer of his shirt which he didn’t remove, Daryl feels the warmth of the other man and he realizes with a vague notion of shame, it’s almost better than the sex itself. 

So he’s a little touch-starved. Big deal.

“Gotta go piss,” he mutters, pulling his pants and underwear back on. Rick’s soft laughter follows him as he heads to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door behind him.

He almost expected to find her there, to be honest, so he’s not surprised.

The woman standing in the hallway looks pale and sad. She’s wearing a hospital gown and there are bloodstains all over the bottom part of it. Her long brown hair seems dirty, but Daryl realizes soon that it’s just sticky with blood instead. She’s staring at Daryl with big, brown eyes; the moment she realizes he sees her, she vanishes into thin air, leaving only a trace of the septic smell all hospitals seem to have.

_ Great _ , Daryl thinks to himself, shaking his head.  _ His dead wife’s a vengeful spirit. Exactly the kinda entertainment I needed. _

At least he’s relatively sure the new deputy is going to arrest him, now; and who knows, the acquaintance might just prove useful. After all, Daryl’s got a murdered girl to find. Who better than a cop to help in his investigation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously have a thing for Rick always giving Daryl blowjobs. What the hell. I mean, Daryl surely doesn't complain, but isn't it starting to get boring? I gotta become more creative when I write smut next time...


	3. Ghost of a Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter is longer than the last... and I can't seem to be able to control it even though the story is planned out to the last details. I just keep adding stuff.  
Oh well. Please enjoy as the mystery unfolds!

Deputy Rick Grimes is still there when Daryl returns from the bathroom, which is the furthest thing from what he was expecting while cleaning himself up. He was preparing himself for the scenario where the cop would leave discreetly while out of Daryl’s sight, and so he’s very surprised when he finds Rick in the kitchen instead, half-naked and apparently comfortable with it as he makes himself a cup of tea. Daryl didn’t even know he had tea around the house. 

“What do you say to a pizza?” The deputy asks, offering Daryl a second steaming cup. “I mean, I hate to bother the delivery guy in this weather, but I took the liberty of looking in your fridge-”

“Pizza sounds great,” Daryl interrupts, embarrassed because he knows what the inside of his fridge looks like and it doesn’t paint the prettiest picture of his at all. He really hopes the deputy intends to pay for the pizza since he suggested it; there might be a few bucks left in Daryl’s money jar, but he’d rather not spend it before he goes hunting. He might need to buy new bolts and shit, and he’s worried with the prices of everything going up, he won’t be able to afford them. Could he make his own? He’s going to have to try, at least, unless he finds a job real soon.

He sniffs suspiciously at the mug Rick handed him; seriously, tea? Where did the man even find it? Daryl sure as fuck hasn’t bought any of that in what literally must’ve been years. Or has he? 

“Would you make the call? I think I need the bathroom, too,” Rick says, motioning to the drying sticky mess visible above his waistband, shameless like it’s just something people do. He smirks when he notices Daryl’s flushed cheeks. 

Pretending like he’s not blushing at all, Daryl grumbles something vaguely insulting and completely incoherent that the deputy thankfully takes as acquiescence. He watches Rick head out of the kitchen to the bathroom, telling himself he’s not staring after the man’s ass, just making sure the vengeful spirit lady in the hospital gown hasn’t returned. Shaking his head, Daryl grabs a handy bag of salt from its shelf, and the old, thankfully wireless phone. He calls the only pizza place he knows and orders a double pepperoni; as he’s placing the order, he goes to the hallway to sprinkle the floor with salt. Just in case. It’s going to be a bother to Beth and all the other ghosts if they want to follow him around, but, fuck it. He’s not having Rick ripped apart by a vengeful spirit in his house. Not on his watch.

Once he’s finished, he returns to the kitchen and tries his tea. It’s actually pretty good, sweet but not fruity. He likes it. What he doesn’t like is the awkwardness that’s starting to get a hold of him. He’s never been in this situation before; back when he was much younger and he had any sort of sex with someone, it was usually behind a bar or in an alley, never at anybody’s home. He’s not necessarily somebody to be brought home and, well, when Will Dixon was still alive, Daryl wouldn’t have dared to even look at any man twice in his father’s presence, not to mention hooking up with said man and bringing him home.

So the thing with Rick Grimes is new and completely foreign. How’s Daryl supposed to act? Are they going to just what, eat pizza in silence and then part ways forever? Or what? What’s the policy here? What’s the rule set? Is this a one-night stand or will there be a repeat performance? And is it bad if Daryl really wants it to be the latter?...

“You’re dripping tea all over yourself,” Beth informs him, popping up on top of the counter out of nowhere. It’s a testament to how long Daryl’s been dealing with ghosts that he isn’t even startled. 

He frowns as he looks down at his chest. She’s right. The whole front of his shirt is wet; it’s a wonder he didn’t feel anything, what with the tea still being rather warm. He sets the mug on the counter next to Beth’s leg and picks up a towel to dry himself off. 

He bites down on his lower lip, listening in to the sounds from the bathroom. The shower is running, so he supposes Rick won’t hear what he talks about. If he hears words, he’s just going to assume Daryl’s still on the phone with the pizza place.

“I got someone here,” he says to Beth. “So I can’t talk much.”

“Ooooh,” Beth exclaims, and her mouth widens into a grin. “Did you get laid? Is that why your belt’s undone? Who’s the lucky lady? Do I know her? I bet she’s pretty, with you being so handsome, your girlfriend’s probably really pretty too-”

“_ He _is damn pretty, yeah,” Daryl mutters, “but he ain’t my boyfriend. Now stop yer gawkin’ an’ focus, got some questions to ask. Choir practice. When’s the last ya remember?”

Beth, who has been gawking, for the lack of a better word, blinks at the sudden change of subject. She purses her lips, thinking, and finally she says, “Wednesday, I think? We had practice every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but I don’t remember being there on Friday… Maybe it was cancelled? Mrs. Lucille sometimes cancels at the last minute, when her condition worsens and her husband can’t make it…”

“Okay,” Daryl says, nodding, “Wednesday, that’s the nineteenth. ‘s it possible ya ain’t been taken on Sunday, but that Wednesday goin’ home after practice?”

There’s a moment of silence as the ghost girl considers Daryl’s words, but soon enough, she shakes her head. “No, listen, I don’t think it could’ve been Wednesday… I clearly remember the bells ringing. From the church, they do that before service every other hour on Sundays. And anyway, let’s assume for a moment I was in fact taken on Wednesday. Why would my parents do nothing about it until Sunday afternoon? That’s almost four days. They wouldn’t just ignore me missing for four days.”

Daryl has the dubiously pleasant experience of having gone missing for a whole week without anyone noticing when he was eight years old, but he doesn’t mention it. Beth’s parents likely aren’t as neglectful as old Will Dixon was. Not many parents are. He thinks about it, though; is it somehow possible that the four days between Beth’s factual disappearance and her parents reporting it to the police were somehow concealed from everyone? 

Shit, there are so many assumptions to make. Too many what ifs, too much guesswork. He feels like he’s grasping at straws. The only thing that Daryl knows for sure is that Beth Greene is dead, but that’s not very helpful because it doesn’t bring anyone any closer towards finding her.

“Gonna need to talk to ‘em,” he decides finally. He isn’t sure yet how he’s going to breach the subject with the Greenes; he can’t just go there and ask them about their daughter’s disappearance without coming off at least a little bit strange. They’ve never seen him before, after all, and anything they might’ve heard about the youngest Dixon, well. It’s definitely not anything good. 

Rick would be able to help get him inside, but how does Daryl even broach the subject without telling the truth which, for obvious reasons, he can’t reveal? The deputy has already made it clear earlier that he won’t talk about the investigation. Daryl has no doubts that whatever’s happened - with luck, will yet happen - between them in private, it’ll have absolutely no bearing on this matter. 

Beth sighs, looking really dejected. “What if they don’t really want to find me?” She asks, and there’s an edge of something Daryl really doesn’t like in her voice. A certain hollowness. Like how vengeful spirits sound; he always thought vengeful spirits came back like that from the start, but he has a sudden urgent thought that - maybe they don’t all start out wrathful. Maybe they’re just ghosts who couldn’t finish their business for some reason or another. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he snaps, “‘course they’s wanna find yer skinny ass. Ain’cha seen the damn milk cartons? Whole damn county’s lookin’ for ya, I bet. Whatever’s goin’ on, yer ma and pa ain’t in on it. I promise.”

The girl smiles shyly at the reassurance, nodding, and she gently touches the back of Daryl’s hand with her icy-cold fingers. “Thank you,” she says. “You’re such a good person, Daryl Dixon. I hope your boyfriend treats you right. You deserve the best.”

Daryl only has enough time to mumble, “He ain’t my boyfriend,” before the sounds of the shower die down in the bathroom. He gives Beth a half-hearted glare as he finishes his tea. “No more talkin’, not while he’s here. Got it?” He warns. The girl gives him a thumbs-up and a cheeky grin, and then she actually whistles when Rick returns to the kitchen, still only half-dressed and dripping wet.

_ Fuck me, _ Daryl thinks and means it both metaphorically and literally. 

“You’ve got great taste, I admit,” Beth tells him. “Rick, he’s like, everyone’s crush, isn’t he? You’d be the envy of all girls in my school if they knew, that’s for sure.”

Daryl ignores her and instead nods to Rick. He’ll think about how Beth knows the deputy later. Probably met him before. It’s not important. “Ordered us a double pepperoni. Hope ‘s alright?”

“Yeah, I like pepperoni,” the deputy replies, picking up his tea. “So. I don’t mean to impose, you know, you can tell me if I should get my ass outta here. Just thought it’d be nice to stay a while. My shift’s done and, well, there’s the storm outside, but if you’d rather I left…”

“Don’t wan’cha to go,” Daryl assures, looking down at his feet because he’s quite certain he’s blushing again. Beth giggles from her seat at the counter and he has to resist the urge to glare at her. Or throw salt in her direction. It would be too weird and he doesn’t want to seem weird, to Rick. He kind of wants to seem sexy. If he can even pull that off. Because seriously, he doesn’t think he can. Rick called him gorgeous while they were, uh, doing stuff, but it was probably a heat of the moment thing. It’s fine. Daryl doesn’t need to be pampered and called beautiful, he’s not some kind of sissy; he just hopes Rick won’t realize too soon that he’s way out of Daryl’s league. Not to be greedy, but Daryl can sort of imagine actually falling in love with this man; and even if the only thing he can hope for is just a repeat of what they’ve already done together, so be it. Even that is enough to make Daryl excited.

Rick seems to be on the same page as him about the last part. He smiles at Daryl, puts away the mug with the remains of his tea - never realizing where the chill is coming from as his arm passes right through Beth’s leg - and he reaches out to grab Daryl’s wrist, and to pull him into a loose embrace. 

“Ain’t going anywhere, then,” he murmurs, nuzzling into Daryl’s neck. “Tell me if I get too clingy, though.”

Daryl laughs softly at that. “Been awhile since anyone’s held me,” he admits sheepishly, aware of how dumb it sounds. Like he’s a kid needing to be hugged. But damn, it feels good to have arms around him like this, to be close to another living person. Being a Dixon is rather lonely, to be honest. It’s no wonder a little human touch is enough to turn Daryl into a sentimental fool. So be it. Rick’s not pulling away, which means he doesn’t mind.

“I lost my wife three years ago,” the deputy confesses, then kisses at the juncture between Daryl’s neck and shoulder. “Ain’t got many opportunities to hold anyone since then. Got my kids, but it’s just not the same.”

“Don’cha gotta go back to yer kids?” Daryl asks, alarmed. “Since ya ain’t workin’ an’ all.”

“Nope, they’re visiting with Lori’s parents,” Rick says, smiling fondly as he runs a calming hand over Daryl’s back. “Neither goes to school yet, Carl’s five, Judith is three, so I can get away with dropping them off at their grandparents’ any time. It’s only a few miles east, over in Delilah. This way, I know they’re well taken care of and I can focus on the case. It’s been tough over the last couple weeks..”

“I’m distractin’ you from yer job, then,” Daryl notes, but he relaxes into the comfort of Rick Grimes’ arms wrapped around him.

Rick sighs into his neck. “Yep. But I guess I needed the distraction. If I had to talk to Walsh and the rest of the guys one more time today, I swear I’d have torn their throats out. With my teeth.”

Daryl knows Deputy Shane Walsh very well and he definitely is the sort of man to warrant an aggressive reaction even from the best people. He’s loud and boastful, the same sort that bastard Negan used to be in high school, and a damn bully who can’t get over a grudge from childhood. Merle beat him up for picking on Daryl when they were both little kids, back when Daryl’s mother was still alive, and Walsh still hasn’t forgotten the shame of that defeat. And he didn’t forgive. Out of all the cops in town, Walsh is the one most intent on pinning every petty crime that’s uncovered on Daryl. He even managed to make it stick once or twice. Daryl spent a few months in the county jail for shit he didn’t do. Suffice it to say, he really doesn’t like Deputy Walsh much.

But the subject might be worth exploring. Daryl needs information and he doesn’t mind playing a little dirty to get it.

“Screw Walsh,” he says emphatically. “Worst cop in town if ya ask me. Wouldn’t trust him to get shit done right. Dunno how he’s got to be deputy.”

“Don’t be hard on him,” Rick admonishes. He’s a kind man, Daryl’s learning, even for those who don’t seem to deserve his kindness. “He’s the one who took the call when Beth Greene went missing. He’s taking the case harder than most. I think he’s feeling personally responsible, because he was the first responder.”

That’s… interesting, Daryl thinks and mentally notes down the news. He really wishes he could get his hands on a recording of that call. The exact time and date, the tone of the conversation, the details. But it’s probably going to be impossible to find. He’s not even sure what system the Sheriff’s Department is using to store such stuff. If it’s all old-school tapes, then maybe he’d have some luck if he had a few hours to browse the storage room. If it’s an audio file on a computer or, worse yet, on a remote server, he’d need a tougher mind than his to obtain it. He’s not sure it’s worth the trouble.

He needs more, though, more than just some off-hand, maybe unrelated details about the whole investigation. And he’s got an idea how to pull Rick’s tongue, so to speak. 

“It possible the girl just skipped town? Like, at all?” He asks. “Heard people talkin’, ya know. Sayin’ she done ditched some choir practice? Chased boys, shit like that.”

“People in small towns always talk, don’t see why North Hanging would be an exception,” Rick replies with a sigh which sounds like he’s vaguely annoyed. “There were no boys involved, we checked. Beth missed a choir meeting, the last one before she went missing, but according to her friends, it’s because she didn’t feel too well. That’s also why she stayed with a friend for a few nights instead of going home. She had a fever and her dad agreed she shouldn’t be out and about with the weather being all finicky, and why am I even telling you this?”

Daryl doesn’t answer because Beth is as good as screaming his head off even before the deputy is finished: “That’s not true! I didn’t have a fever, I didn’t stay with any friends! I was going home after church, there were bells ringing and the sky was nice, and I never made it home! Daryl, I swear, I’m not lying, they are, someone there is lying!”

“I’m a good listener,” Daryl eventually says, doing his best to not react to Beth’s outburst. “Ain’t gonna tell nobody wha’cha told me,” he promises the deputy, and he smiles like he’s just got an idea. “Actually, I seen it on TV, ya could talk at me? Like, I seen a detective in a movie or some shit, the dude’s brain worked better if he talked about his theories an’ stuff at another person. Not for the input, just. Y’know. Shit.”

Rick chuckles. “I’ll consider it,” he promises and leans in as if he’s about to kiss Daryl. 

That’s when the doorbell rings. “Think it’s our pizza. Here, think a twenty will be enough? Ain’t got more cash on me…”

“Twenty’s more than enough,” Daryl assures him. “Hope the fucker’s got change,” he adds in a murmur as he heads to the door to pay and take the pizza. 

*

There are places in the world where somebody like Daryl might go to learn new things about all the weird stuff happening around. Some of those places make sense, others - less so. Here in North Hanging, King County, there’s no such place, or if there is, it’s not open to Daryl Dixon. He would rather bet on the former, though, if only because the entire county is so damn tiny as to only have about two thousand inhabitants, most of whom live in or around the town of North Hanging rather than in the surrounding woods. There’s nothing there besides, just the one town, a few farms and the vast forest at the root of the Appalachian Trail. Such a small county with its population doesn’t exactly warrant many places for weirdos who believe in ghosts, after all. 

That’s why Daryl’s forced to use the free Internet in the library when he has to ask for advice from people who call themselves _ experts on the supernatural. _ Jesus is one of those people.

His name’s not really Jesus, of course, but Daryl doesn’t know what his name really is. He’s never met the dude in real life, though unfortunately, Jesus knows everything there is to know about Daryl. The history of their acquaintance is more than a little bit creepy. Some seven or eight years ago, Daryl was using his laptop, browsing supernatural stuff. He posted a fairly innocent question on a discussion board, about dealing with vengeful spirits when cremation wasn’t on the table. He refreshed the page and all of a sudden, the laptop started acting weird. It was before Daryl found out that ghosts can’t really possess anything, so naturally the first thing he assumed was possession. Only after the problems didn’t stop after almost literally burying the computer in a few pounds of rock salt did Daryl realize that it probably wasn’t possessed, just hacked.

And a moment later, he noticed a messenger window which popped up on the screen. 

_ I can help you, for a price,_ it said, and there was no ID of the sender anywhere. For all intents and purposes, the message looked like Daryl wrote it to himself.

Not sure what to do, but sort of desperate for an answer to his question, he replied, _ Name your price. _

_ Nudes, _came the instant reply. Then:

_ Your nudes, to be precise. In clear lighting, preferably daylight. I’m not picky about the posing, but don’t get too artsy. Want to see your dick. _

_ What the fuck, _Daryl thought and closed the laptop. 

He considered selling off the laptop or at least getting somebody to wipe it and set up some firewalls. It was clearly some sort of virus or a prank, or both, and he had neither the time nor the patience to deal with that kind of crap. But then, the phone rang and Daryl picked up, hoping maybe it was a new contract from work. He was working for a construction company over in Sommer County at that time, and it was largely seasonal. Daryl had been out of a job for the last two weeks, so he really couldn’t afford missing a call. 

But it wasn’t work that was calling.

“You know, it’s rude to leave a man hanging in the middle of a conversation,” an unfamiliar voice informed him. It was male, sounded young and cheery. 

Daryl didn’t hang up only because he was too surprised. “How the fuck didya get my number?” He asked, immediately making the connection between the mysterious messages and this call out of the blue. The Dixons weren’t listed in any phone books, that’s for sure. Daryl was also very careful with where he divulged his contact information. Besides his insurance company and his employers, nobody should’ve had his number.

“Does it matter?” The stranger asked back, mildly exasperated. “I know a lot about you, Daryl Dixon, your phone number wasn’t really that hard to find in comparison to some stuff I’ve had to look up. What’s important here is, I have the information you need and you, you are the hottest man I’ve ever seen search for such information. So. Are you willing to trade?”

Now normally, this would’ve been the moment when Daryl hanged up, but the problem was, there was a really mad vengeful spirit dude pestering him at that time and he was kinda desperate. Because the spirit was none other than Will Dixon. Who couldn’t be cremated just yet because he fucking _ donated his body for science, _or more likely, for the money said science offered, which meant there was nothing Daryl could do about the pissed off fucker trying to kill him whenever he so much as left the house. And to think, he was so fucking happy when the bastard finally kicked the bucket.

“... One nude,” he muttered into the phone, wondering what the fuck he was even doing. Because this was stupid. Was he actually willing to _ negotiate _ with some damn hacker stalker creep? Yep, he decided finally, he was; nude photos were actually a small price to pay to get rid of Will Dixon once and for all. 

Didn’t mean he trusted some shady source enough to agree to his terms from the start, though. “Ain’t gonna send ya nothin’ before I know whatever’s ya gonna tell me works. That clear?” 

The man on the other side of the line chuckled in delight. “Oh, I really love your voice,” he said. “You know what? Since it’s your first time with me, I’ll agree to your terms. Call it a deal. Check your mail inbox. You’ll find all the information you require there. I will send you the details where I want that nude sent tomorrow.”

The line went dead before Daryl could so much as breathe in reply. 

The information from the stranger turned out to have been correct. Daryl was able to temporarily get rid of his father’s ghost through an old north-European ritual involving burning some shit at where the empty grave was located. Also literal shit. As long as the ritual would be repeated every year at the anniversary of Will Dixon’s death, it would keep the spirit contained to the immediate vicinity of the grave, until finally the remains would get cremated after the contracted 20 years of use by the pharmaceutical company that got them. Meant that Jesus fulfilled his part of the deal.

Daryl used the camera in the laptop to take a nude photo of himself, awkward as fuck and not very artsy at all, and he uploaded it according to the instructions he received. For the next few days, he frantically checked every amateur gay porn site he knew to see if the photo was leaked somewhere, but.. it wasn’t. 

Since then, Daryl has worked with the hacker a few more times, and has since learned to call him Jesus. He also got sort of used to their arrangement, and to the tentative something-like-friendship they almost seem to cultivate when Daryl doesn’t need Jesus’ help. He doesn’t hate having someone he can bitch to about the townsfolk, the menial jobs he’s had to take for lack of better alternative, even about not being able to get laid in the backwoods hellhole of King County. Jesus, when he doesn’t demand naughty pictures, is actually a nice and funny guy. Not even much of a pervert, honestly. They don’t talk about sex and Daryl’s never felt like the hacker was harassing him in any way whatsoever. Besides the arrangement, of course.

And the arrangement is still going to this day. Daryl doesn’t have the laptop anymore, he had to sell it when times were tough, and he’s never had a smartphone. Jesus bought him a polaroid camera online, had it shipped to him, and provided Daryl with a physical address of a PO box to send payment pictures to. For some unfathomable reason, he still wants Daryl’s nudes in return for any help he gives. And it’s still sort of creepy. 

His info is always spot-on, though. 

When Daryl messages him on October twelvth from the local library, Jesus responds immediately, like every other time. 

_ Interesting stuff you’re getting yourself into, _ he writes after Daryl introduces the investigation of Beth Greene’s disappearance to him. He carefully omits the involvement of a certain deputy who might’ve spent the previous night at his place. The last thing he needs is Jesus getting jealous; it’s not like the hacker has any basis for jealousy, it’s not like he’s in any way entitled to anything from Daryl, but who the fuck knows what goes on in the heads of dudes who can’t really be called anything but creepy stalkers; and how sad is it that said creepy stalker might just be one of the most significant relationships in Daryl’s life?

It’s pathetic, is what it is.

_ So you’re branching out, huh? Solving murder mysteries now? That’s alright. Maybe that’s what your spooky-ass town needs, after all these years. _

_ The fuck you’re saying? _Daryl types. 

_ I’m saying, I dug into some history of North Hanging because that’s where you live and all. Did you know, there have been strange disappearances going on in that corner of Georgia since long before you were born? And many within your lifetime, too. Check them out, man. Mailing you the two most recent, to start you off. _

Daryl checks his mailbox and finds an empty draft message with two PDF attachments. Jesus never sends anything with a return address, like he doesn’t want to risk being tracked. It’s not like Daryl would. He doesn’t know the first thing about computers, anyhow, and it’s not like he’d go to the police with such a matter. Or any matter at all. 

He opens the attachments, not really sure what to expect. 

The first is a very short newspaper excerpt from five years ago, the missing person was a man in his thirties, James Williams. Daryl knew the guy as Jim. He worked for Dale, too. Wasn’t half as bad as most of the people in this shitty town, though he did have some problems regarding booze. Hard not to, living in this place. Soon after the garage closed, Jim disappeared. Daryl didn’t read the papers, so he didn’t know that it was a big deal. When he stopped meeting him on the street every now and then, he simply thought Jim died in a hunt gone wrong, like so many other men around here do every year. He never knew the man was never found. 

The second attachment is a much bigger spread from the country-wide paper about the disappearance of an eight-year-old Sophia Peletier. Daryl remembers this case vaguely from when it happened three years ago. The little girl’s father was arrested for her murder and is currently in jail, serving life. Her mother is a teacher and somebody Daryl used to know, once upon a time. 

At first, nothing seems to connect the two disappearance cases, besides the fact that both victims were local. But Daryl’s been grasping at straws the last couple of days, so he’ll take anything. He compares the dates of the disappearances - late September for Jim, mid-October for little Sophia. Same time of the year, though, unfortunately, that in itself isn’t unusual. Georgia with its fall thunderstorms can be tricky. Daryl knows of people who’d drowned while out in the woods because the sudden rainfalls caused the safe-looking streams to turn into roaring torrents. There are bears deeper in the woods, too. Some ravines one might break their neck if they’re not careful. It’s just not so unusual for people to vanish in King County, is all. 

But the thing is… there are birth dates for Sophia and Jim in their respective articles. Both were born on October the thirty-first. That’s a pesky coincidence, Daryl thinks.

“When were you born?” He asks Beth who he told explicitly not to peek at his conversation on the screen. She pouted at first, but she’s kept her distance. Right now, she hovers around the closest bookshelf, attempting to move a thick tome and doing badly at it. From Daryl’s experience, ghosts aren’t able to actually touch anything material. Or anyone. Except for him. It seems that whatever it is that makes contact with ghosts possible for him extends to the physical realm as well. 

“On Halloween,” Beth replies distractedly. Her hand goes right through the tome again and again, and she groans in frustration. Giving up, she looks up at Daryl. “I loved it when I was a kid, you know? I always went trick-or-treating with my sister. Mom would make costumes for us, she’s a great seamstress, so it was amazing. And daddy would always buy the best candy. Half would go to other trick-or-treaters, the other half was mine to do with as I pleased. Then at night, we’d have a bonfire to celebrate my birthday. It was fun. Last year I was at the hospital around this time, so we didn’t do anything for my birthday… but we were supposed to return to that tradition this year, you know?” She sighs and shakes her head. “It’s so unfair, isn’t it? That I had to die. I mean, I was so young.”

“Don’t nobody get to choose,” Daryl mutters softly. He knows whatever he says doesn’t really matter. What’s done is done. The girl is dead, nothing can change that. Still… he feels helpless. Like what he’s doing now is meaningless because it won’t return Beth’s life. 

It sucks, seeing the dead and not being able to really do anything for them. What is even the point?

“So, why are you asking?” Beth inquires after a moment of uncomfortable silence. 

“Ah, nothin’, just a hunch,” Daryl replies, shaking his head, and notes the newly learned fact on the back side of the map he had photocopied earlier. Three people born on the same date, all living in King County, disappeared roughly around the same time… that sounds less like a coincidence by the minute. Thing is, it’s still nothing substantial. Nothing he could go to the Greenes with. He’s no closer to finding Beth than he was at the beginning of this mess.

_ Need you to do something for me, _he types in the messenger, and then specifies his request as concisely as he can. 

Jesus takes almost three minutes to reply - longer than ever before. _ That’s a lot of risk you’re asking me to take. You know it’s going to cost you extra, yes? Dick pics aren’t going to cut it this time. _

_ Whatever, _ Daryl writes. _ Name your price. _

_ A video, _ Jesus requests immediately. _ I want a video of you jerking off. I’ll get you a video recorder before the end of the week. Also, three nudes. If I’m going to jail, I’ll need some fond memories to remember you by. _

Fuck, but the guy is a weirdo. Daryl knows associating with somebody who definitely has a creepy sexual obsession with him is a bad idea. He’s got no choice, though. What he needs done requires somebody with Jesus’ particular skill set. Plus, Jesus is his sort-of-friend, and Daryl’s too lonely to discard that over a bit of deviancy.

So he agrees. Fuck his life. 

That settled, he waits for Jesus to declare the computer safe to log off, then leaves the library. Beth follows, of course. She hasn’t really left Daryl’s side since this morning when Rick Grimes kissed Daryl goodbye on the porch and went straight to work after having spent the night. She giggled at him as he ate cold pizza for breakfast and stared at the door with what must’ve been a very dazed expression. She outright laughed when Daryl discovered a very obvious hickey on the side of his neck. 

Beth claimed it’s all because she’s living vicariously through him, because she never had an epic love story with a handsome stranger when she was alive. Daryl didn’t even bother correcting her that a one night stand isn’t exactly a love story, even if it was indeed very epic. He doesn’t want a love story. Does he? No. He doesn’t. He and Rick had some amazing sex. Once that evening and, well, more than once that night. But that’s it. It’s probably never going to happen again. Rick will go back to his kids and will remember that he’s straight, he’ll find himself a nice woman to settle down with, and he’ll forget all about a dumb redneck he fucked once. That’s how stories like this always end for people like Daryl Dixon.

Everybody leaves him, eventually.

“Where are we going now?” Beth asks, breaking Daryl’s train of thought. It’s a good thing. Thinking about Rick right now, about the inevitable heartache, it won’t do him any good. 

“School,” he mutters. “Gotta talk to one of ‘em teachers.”

*

Carol Peletier is older than Daryl by three years. She went to the same school as him; fuck, everyone in North Hanging went to the same damn school unless they were newcomers, and the town doesn’t get much of those anyway. But the thing is, Daryl knew Carol when she was in school, though of course her name wasn’t Peletier back then. She was a junior when Daryl was a freshman, and it was only thanks to her that he passed math. Carol originates from the same sort of abusive background as Daryl, but the thing is, contrary to the Dixons, the Dawsons have never been regarded as worthless trash by the general population. Carol’s father was a respectful member of the society, a science teacher at the school. Nobody seemed to notice he was also a mean drunk who didn’t have a problem beating his wife and kids. 

Daryl wasn’t exactly friends with Carol - he never really knew how to make friends with anyone, to be honest - but he knew her and she knew him. Back then, that was enough to get both of them through their shitty adolescent years. For a moment there, Daryl thought Carol might’ve wanted something more from him; but it must’ve been an illusion because she never brought it up, never said a thing. Which was fortunate, he supposes, since he wouldn’t have been able to welcome her affections, if she had any for him. Even then he already knew he was as gay as a Christmas tree.

Carol is still one of the few people in town who don’t spit and curse at him when she sees him. They don’t exactly interact on a daily basis, but Carol usually makes sure to acknowledge him with a nod or a kind word whenever they see each other.

Right now, though, outside of the school where Daryl catches her during recess, she doesn’t look very happy to see him. No wonder; Daryl remembers belatedly that it’s nearing the anniversary of her daughter’s disappearance. Maybe he should’ve thought this visit through.

“Can I help you with something, Mr. Dixon?” Carol asks without bothering to hide her surprise at his presence. 

Daryl shrugs, attempting to act like everything is normal. “Was around,” he replies gruffly. He’s got no social skills whatsoever. He’s lucky Deputy Grimes has all the social grace of a bulldozer as well, because otherwise, their acquaintance wouldn’t have progressed further than that first meeting outside of Daryl’s piece of shit truck. Speaking of which-

“Heard you has a truck for sell,” he says. It’s what he came up with as an excuse to talk to the woman. He’s obviously not in a position to afford to buy a truck, but a little lie can’t hurt.

The excuse works. Carol smiles at him instantly if weakly, like she’s relieved that he only comes with official business instead of small talk or whatever. “Ah. Yes, that’s right. Ed’s old truck’s been sitting in our garage for the last three years now. I don’t drive, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want it. It’s too big for me.”

“How much?” Daryl asks. 

“Hell, I just want it gone. Way I see it, I should be paying to have it removed,” Carol says and chuckles softly, only a trace of sadness visible in her features still. She’s always had this delicate sort of laughter. Everything about her is delicate, almost subdued, like she’s afraid to express herself, to establish herself in the world.

“Won’t Ed want it back?” Daryl inquires, all mock-ignorance like he doesn’t know about Ed’s prison sentence and the reason for it. He needs an in to start a completely different conversation. One about Sophia Peletier’s disappearance. Fuck, but he really chose a shitty timing.

Carol frowns. “He’s in for life,” she snaps. “And even if he weren’t, he’s got no right to want anything from me. Not after what he did to…”

She trails off and her face crumbles into a pained expression. Cursing mentally at himself, Daryl shakes his head as he regrets awakening painful memories. He had no choice, he really needs to get to the bottom of this, but he wonders now if there was no other option to get more information without making Carol relive her loss. Because if it turns out the disappearances aren’t related after all, it would mean he made Carol sad for no reason. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “Didn’t mean to-”

“To what?” Carol asks, glaring at him. “What are you really here for, Daryl Dixon? You think I don’t hear the rumors about you? Drugs, alcohol, kidnapping young girls?”

Daryl squints at her. The change is so abrupt, the mood swing so unexpected, he’s confused. Carol never had a mean word to say about him before, to his face or otherwise. He might deserve a verbal lashing for bringing up a touchy subject, but this? He doesn’t deserve this.

“Ain’t kidnapped nobody,” he protests. “Just askin’ ‘bout the truck. Damn, woman, calm yer fuckin’ tits.”

It’s in character for who people think he is, the derogatory tone, but Daryl hates himself a little for using it, for acting like a backwoods redneck they all believe him to be. He doesn’t like anyone, sure, but that doesn’t mean he lets everyone know about it. Shouting and sneering at people is more Merle’s way than his. Still, it works, sort of, because Carol’s glare softens and she hides back behind the meek persona she’s used before. 

“Well, I’ll sell it to you for a hundred fifty if you can get it out of my sight within the week,” she offers in a tone that would almost sound friendly if it weren’t completely faked. 

Daryl just nods. “Will think about it,” he mutters. “Gonna let ya know tomorrow, okay?” 

He grudgingly accepts that he might not get all his answers today. With how Carol reacted to the initial attempt, he supposes he’s going to have to be subtle about what he’s trying to find out. The truck excuse will have to last a bit longer. 

Carol accepts his answer and goes back to the school building without a further word. Daryl sighs, looks at Beth who remained quiet for the duration of his conversation, and then notices something else interesting behind her. 

Or rather, some_ one. _

“Sophia,” he breathes, staring down at the little girl sitting on the bench. She looks roughly the same as in the photograph in that newspaper article. She’s dressed in what looks like a night dress, and she’s wearing a crown made out of some sort of grass. Daryl doesn’t know much about plants, but the grass looks like it might be wheat. It’s not a typical sort of crop for Georgia, but Daryl’s seen decorative crowns like that sold for a few cents on festivals around harvest time. 

The little girl smiles at him. It’s subdued, a bit shy. Looks a lot like her mother’s smile. “Hello,” she greets. “You’re Daryl, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Daryl whispers and sits down next to her, shaking his head in disbelief. Three years ago, this little girl disappeared from her home in the middle of the night. Now, three years later, here she still is, outside of the school her mother works in; and even though he’s never met her before, Sophia obviously knows who he is. Somehow, all ghosts he meets always do, like they all get some sort of newsletter with his personal details as soon as they kick the bucket.

“I was wondering, can you help my mommy?” Sophia asks. 

Daryl looks at her quizzically. “How? Yer mommy, she don’t think I’m her friend right now.”

“But you are,” the little girl informs him without hesitation, like it’s an unquestionable fact. 

“Who are you talking to?” Beth asks, startled. “Is there another ghost here?”

“Not now, Beth,” Daryl tells her without looking up at her. He smiles at Sophia the best he can, trying to look non-threatening. He hopes he’s less shitty at talking to kids than he is at interacting with adults, but really, he can’t tell. It’s not like he has a lot of experience with either. “Yeah, guess I am her friend. Can try to help her. Wha’cha need me to do?”

“Tell mommy it wasn’t her fault,” Sophia requests earnestly. “Mommy thinks it’s her fault I was taken. She thinks daddy did it, and she could have prevented it if she reported him earlier. I need her to know she couldn’t have done anything.”

Daryl immediately understands what she’s implying. “Yer sayin’, ‘s not yer daddy done it?”

Sophia nods in confirmation, and she looks sad as she explains: “Daddy is a bad man, but it wasn’t him. Daddy always smells like whiskey, you know? And a little bit like poop.”

She makes an exaggerated disgusted face, and giggles when Daryl responds with a similar expression. Then she continues: “The man who took me, he smelled nice. Like… like the pumpkin pie mommy bakes for Thanksgiving. And he was kind to me. He gave me this crown. I love flower crowns!” 

Daryl smiles at the little girl’s excitement. “‘s a real pretty crown,” he admits. “Do you remember what the man looked like?”

Sophia frowns and shakes her head. “Sorry,” she apologizes sadly. “It was very dark. I only saw him in the candlelight. He had curly hair. And a bit of,” she points at her chin, then at Daryl’s. “You know. Hair on his chin. But not a lot. Less than you.”

Daryl nods and thanks her for the description, even though it’s so vague it could literally describe half of the men in the States. Sophia pats his arm, the touch of her cool little fingers sending a shiver down his spine even through clothes.

“You’re nice, Mister Daryl,” she tells him sincerely. “You will tell my mommy, okay? That she shouldn’t be sad? And it’s not her fault?”

“‘course I will, kiddo,” Daryl promises. He’s not sure yet when to approach Carol about it or how well this conversation will go, but… he’ll think of something. 

Sophia beams at him, and then gets up from the bench to run to the school where her mother disappeared to a few moments ago. Watching her blurry, semi-transparent form, Daryl considers what she told him. 

“Smelled like pumpkin pie, huh,” he mutters under his breath, thoughtful, and almost jumps when Beth grabs his hand. 

“What did you say?” The girl demands, staring at him with wide eyes.

“The lil’ one, Sophia Peletier. Was taken three years ago. Daddy got arrested,” Daryl explains quickly, blinking at her. “She says, man who done took her ain’t her daddy. She could tell ‘cause her daddy smelled like shit and-”

“And the one who took her smelled like pumpkin pie,” Beth finishes for him. She lets go of his arm and slides down to the ground where she sits on her knees like she’s in shock. “I remembered something. Wherever I was before I died… that dark place… It smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg. Daryl… I think I was taken by the same man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is wondering about the portrayal of Jesus in this story, then my answer is: I don't even know. But it'll sort of make sense later, I guess.
> 
> Oh and also, I'm making up everything about King County because it doesn't exist. Also making up the neighboring counties. Because I can. But I'm researching stuff so hopefully it's not all too far-fetched!


	4. Giving Up the Ghost

The Greene farm is not really part of North Hanging. It’s located a few miles away from the town limits, right on top of the border between King County and Sommer County. It still falls under the King County Sheriff’s jurisdiction and the townspeople of North Hanging proudly count Hershel Greene and his family as their own regardless of what the administration has to say about it. For their part, the Greenes don’t seem to mind one way or another.

Daryl’s never been to the farm before. At one point, he answered a job ad in the local paper about being a farmhand there, but at the same time, he got wind of the vacancy at the factory and he chose that for the promised job security because it wasn’t seasonal. The irony isn’t lost on him as he approaches the fence at the eastern border of the farm: had he chosen the farm, he likely still would’ve had a job well into the winter. 

“Don’t lie about anything,” Beth warns him for the fifth time since he decided to finally pay a visit to the Greene’s this morning. “Don’t say the truth, but don’t lie. Daddy can always tell when people are lying. Try to be diplomatic, okay? You can’t just tell them outright I’m dead, but don’t give them false hope either.”

“I know what I’m doin,” he assures the girl, patient despite her fretting. He can understand why Beth is so stressed. After all, Daryl’s got some heavy questions for her parents and he knows the answers he finds may not be what anybody wants to hear. “Can’cha go and like, check on yer favorite cow or bother a cat or something? Don’t need ya floatin’ an’ moanin’ ‘round me all day. Already havin’ a headache.”

Beth rolls her eyes. “Well, that’s because you slept too long,” she accuses pissily. She sounds so much like a spoiled kid, it’s starting to really get on Daryl’s nerves. He didn’t sign up to play babysitter. “And in that terrible room again. Why can’t I enter that room?”

Daryl sighs. “‘s ‘cause it’s lined with iron,” he replies, “‘cause a guy needs privacy sometimes.”

The video recorder from Jesus came in yesterday evening, an express delivery that came with a pissed-off courier straight from Atlanta. Meant Jesus’ side was done, so Daryl had to fulfil his end of the deal. Of course, he’s not about to explain it to Beth. She’s never going to know what it was that Daryl dropped off at the post office on his way to the farm earlier today. Nobody’s ever going to know but Daryl and Jesus. 

“Okay, fine! Have it your way,” Beth says, scoffing, and disappears into thin air. Daryl tells himself it’s better this way. The presence of a ghost is always distracting and he can’t afford to be distracted. Not when he’s got important things to find out here. 

He notices the police cruiser a moment too late. He’s already knocking on the door, idly looking around, when he sees the familiar car parked off the side of the road leading straight to the big farmhouse. That’s why when the door opens, he’s not especially surprised to come face to face with Deputy Rick Grimes instead of one of the Greenes, though he’s admittedly somewhat relieved at this outcome. It could’ve been Walsh, after all, and Daryl’s definitely not in the mood to see Walsh today.

“Oh, good morning,” Rick greets him, clearly as startled to see him as Daryl is, but hiding it under a mask of casual politeness. “Are you looking for Hershel? He’s not taking job applications right now, I’m afraid.”

“Naw, ain’t here for that,” Daryl replies, wondering how the hell Rick even knows about his job troubles. Did he deduce it from the state of Daryl’s cabin? Though, to be honest, it’s possible that everyone knows. It’s not like he can hide the fact he’s unemployed from the inhabitants of a town with population of just over two thousand, where everybody knows everybody else. The joys of small towns.

“No? What’s your business on the farm, then?” Rick asks, then smirks, letting his tone drop to a seductive timbre. “I mean, you’re obviously not here to see me. Or are you?”

“Don’t flatter yerself, man, ain’t the whole world revolvin’ ‘round ya,” Daryl scoffs and licks his lips, pretending he doesn’t have the urge to press the Goddamn handsome deputy against the wall and kiss him senseless to wipe that smirk off his face. “I actually been thinkin’, that girl’s been missin’ what, a few weeks? I could offer to help find her,” he explains, realizing Rick probably won’t let him in to talk to Hershel directly unless he can present a very good reason to. Whatever happened between them, Deputy Rick Grimes is a cop first and anything else… well, second. Regardless of the flirting he might be enjoying.

As expected, Rick doesn’t seem convinced. “Not to insinuate anything, but the police have been doing everything we could, so how exactly could you help? Unless you’re secretly a clairvoyant, but then again, those guys are more trouble than help anyway.”

“Ain’t that,” Daryl promises, cleverly not mentioning that he doesn’t need to be a clairvoyant to know for certain that Beth is dead. “I’m a tracker. Damn good one. Ya can ask around. People might not like me much, but they ain’t gonna deny that at least.”

It’s true. One of the skills Daryl is proudest of is his ability to read tracks in the woods better than anyone. When he was younger, sometime in high school, he even took part in the annual competition between King County and Sommer County. It was probably the only time in his life when people actually cheered him on for something. He won that competition, by the way, but got nothing out of it. There was a two hundred bucks prize, but Daryl was underage, so his father got his grubby hands on the money and spent it all on booze before the week was over. He also got into a bar fight which ended in property damage and the whole town remembering why exactly the Dixons were scum, so there’s that.

Still, everyone knows, if you need a tracker, then you can’t find better than Daryl Dixon.

Rick seems to consider it, at least, which is a form of progress. He hums thoughtfully, looking at Daryl like he’s trying to discern his motives - like he’s trying to assess if his motivation is anything else but pure. It’s a testament to how shitty the investigation must’ve been until now that he finally acquiesces, taking a step back from the doorway in clear invitation for Daryl to enter. 

“Just, if he says no, don’t push it. God knows the man’s been through enough bullshit,” he says softly, his voice deeper in a clear tone of warning that has no business making Daryl feel like it’s suddenly too hot. 

He might be in over his head, and he doesn’t mean the investigation thing at all. 

Hershel Greene is an older man, but still spry and almost intimidating without seeming imposing. Daryl’s heard a lot of good about him, not all of it from Beth, and he’s inclined to agree with the opinions just by looking at the man. His gut immediately tells him that whatever the reason is for Beth’s disappearance report coming in later than it should have, it’s definitely not because Hershel Greene doesn’t care about his missing daughter. 

“Hershel, this is Daryl Dixon,” Rick introduces him and Daryl wonders when the deputy managed to become so friendly with the Greenes. Wasn’t he new in town? 

“Now, whatever bad you might’ve heard about the Dixons, it don’t apply to Daryl. I can personally vouch for him.”

Daryl glances sharply at Rick who just smiles like he hasn’t just basically risked his reputation on a stranger after only having known him for some two days. And, well, sleeping with him, but that’s really no reason to actually trust anybody. Unless you’re Rick Grimes, apparently. Way to put pressure on a guy. 

“Alright,” Hershel agrees. “I’m not in the habit of judging a man by the deeds of his family, anyway. So, Mr. Daryl Dixon, what can I do for you?”

Daryl inclines his head, resisting the urge to bite his lips. He’s nervous like a little boy and he hates the feeling. “Actually, sir, been thinkin’ I could try ‘n do somethin’ for ya,” he says. “‘s about yer girl. I got… I got some good trackin’ skills. If ya like, I could head out to them woods, see if I can. Ya know. Find any clues others mighta missed.”

“Any help would be appreciated,” Hershel replies solemnly, something like a smile making his way to his face. “Especially if Rick vouches for you. It’s been getting harder and harder not to lose hope, so honestly, anything you can do would be of great value.”

“I’d need any information ya can give,” Daryl tells him. “Like. What’s she was wearin’ at time of disappearance. Where ya suppose it happened. Stuff like that.”

Hershel hums thoughtfully, then looks at Rick. “Guess you can’t share details like that with civilians?” He acknowledges. He sighs even before the deputy replies. “No, I know you can’t. It’s fine. Daryl, I will tell you everything I know, but this isn’t easy for me so I hope to everything that’s holy that it’s not going to be a waste of time.”

Biting his lips, Daryl nods. “Hope so too, sir,” he says solemnly.

And so, Hershel tells him what he thinks happened. The thing is, it doesn’t match up what Daryl knows happened. There was a choir practice on Wednesday, September the nineteenth, when the church was visited by the local paper and the girls had a photo taken for an article about a planned bake sale. Afterwards, Beth didn’t feel good so she went over to a friend’s house; Penny Blake is the friend’s name, she’s a couple of years younger, but they still befriended each other easily. It made sense that Beth stayed at a friend’s on account of the sickness. It wasn’t even the first time it happened, and her friends used to stay at the farm before. Both girls missed school on Thursday and Friday, and Beth didn’t go to practice on Friday either. She was supposed to meet her parents in church on Sunday and head home with them, but she never arrived even though Penny swore that she walked Beth almost to the church gates. Hershel and his wife immediately reported the disappearance to the police.

There’s apparently a doctor’s note to prove Beth really had a fever and stayed at Penny’s. There are witness statements from Penny, her parents and the doctor. Basically, there’s a lot of evidence that Beth’s location was well accounted for until the afternoon on Sunday the twenty-third.

Only, Daryl knows it doesn’t add up because Beth doesn’t remember any of this; and the fact she died wearing the clothes she was photographed in on Wednesday is too much of a coincidence to still be considered such. 

“Could ya mark the place that Penny girl’s livin’ on this?” Daryl asks, presenting his photocopied map from the library. He has a nagging suspicion he knows where it is, he knows whose daughter Penny is, but he waits for confirmation.

Hershel nods, takes a pencil and draws a circle on the map right where Daryl expected. The Mayor’s house. Of course that sleazebag Philip Blake has to be involved somehow. Daryl can’t help but note the place is in the completely opposite direction from where Beth claims she was taken. This makes no damn sense. 

He considers the possibility that Beth might remember things incorrectly, or not remember them at all. He also dismisses it rather quickly. Yes, he encountered ghosts who couldn’t recall the last few days of their lives, but those were old people who oftentimes weren’t able to tell him from their long-lost grandchildren. Beth’s memories might be slightly fractured, but Daryl doesn’t think she really missed over three days. 

Which means the witnesses are lying.

“I’mma check out the area, see if I can find anythin’,” he promises. “Gonna report back soon as I’m done. Hope I can bring ya some good news.”

*

As he leaves, Rick follows him. He walks with Daryl in silence until they’re a good twenty feet away from the house, and out of earshot. Then he grabs Daryl by the elbow, but instead of doing what Daryl hoped he would - instead of kissing him, that is - Rick demands sharply,

“You better tell me everything you know about this case, Dixon.”

Blinking, Daryl pretends he doesn’t understand the implication. “I know nothin’,” he says, “just that a girl’s missin’ an’ I gotta do my share findin’ her.”

“Bullshit,” the deputy snaps. “I watched you, when Hershel was telling you all that. You narrowed your eyes when he said Beth spent a few night at her friend’s. See, you might think you’re dark and mysterious, but you’re actually so damn easy to read. Whatever you’re hiding, you’re gonna tell me right now or I swear to God, I’m going to arrest you.” 

And Daryl, seeing no other choice, simply tells him.

“I see ghosts,” he says, and when he observes Rick’s expression, he quickly adds, “Hear me out. Ya can arrest me later, but for now just… listen to what I hafta say. Alright?”

The deputy glares at him, but nods eventually, and Daryl wonders how he’s going to explain this fucked up situation without digging himself into a hellhole of trouble. How does he make this man believe him? He’s no good at words. Fuck.

“I… been seein’ dead people for as long as I remember. Ain’t always nice, neither, but I ain’t complainin’. Shit’s how it is,” he begins. He sighs. “Long story short, I can see ghosts an’ they know I see them, somehow. So they’s been comin’ to me so’s I can help ‘em with stuff. Not always them ghosts are from ‘round here. Been meetin’ dead folks from all over. Had one from Los Angeles one, pretentious bastard even dead.

“Thing is, one thing they all havin’ in common’s this unfinished business shit. ‘s why they can’t move on or somethin’. Got stuff that’s keepin’ ‘em here, in our world. I try to help ‘em get it done if I can,” Daryl pauses and Rick narrows his eyes at him.

“Are you telling me… Beth Greene is dead?” He asks darkly.

Daryl swallows, and nods. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Y’all been tryin’ to find her, I know ‘s hard to hear this, but-”

“No,” the deputy interrupts. “I don’t believe this. Any of this.”

He shakes his head and lets go of Daryl’s elbow. “I vouched for you,” he says in an accusing tone, “and you’re, what? You think this is funny somehow? You getting off on these people’s suffering? That why you’re here, sniffing around, huh? Pretending you’re trying to help?” 

“I’m tellin’ ya the truth,” Daryl says, fighting himself to stay calm. “Beth Greene came to see me as a ghost few days ago an’ got me to try to finish her business, and fuck if I’m gonna fail her now that I know there’s somethin’ damn fishy goin’ on in this fuckin’ town.”

“If you really think this is true, then you’re crazy, and I don’t know which is worse,” Rick replies coldly. “God, I can’t believe I thought we could- You know what, never mind. Doesn’t matter. You should go. And better not show up here again.”

Frustrated, Daryl pushes him into the nearest tree. “Now ya listen to me, _ Deputy Grimes, _” he hisses. “Yea, might be I’m crazy, but if ya don’t think someone who ain’t me is lyin’ here, yer a worse cop than I gave ya credit for. If all been so clear-cut like this whole story with sudden sickness, don’cha think she woulda been found by now? Dead, alive, whichever. But y’all got no damn clue where she is, have you? Not one damn clue. ‘s ‘cause someone’s lyin’.”

“Let go of me,” the deputy demands in a low, warning tone. 

Daryl growls, irritated at the man’s stubborn refusal to accept what he’s saying. “She ain’t been taken on Sunday,” he says firmly. “She ain’t been sick, and she ain’t been holed up with no friend all that time after choir practice either. Dunno why them witnesses said what they’re sayin’, but no single word of it ain’t true. Can you at least fuckin’ consider it? Just for a moment, can you pretend to believe what I’m tellin’ here makes sense?”

Rick exhales loudly and closes his eyes. When he opens them a few seconds later, he’s visibly calmer, but there’s a deadly sort of threat in the way he looks at Daryl. 

“Tell me your amazing theory, then,” he mocks, but fuck if Daryl isn’t going to take it as an opportunity to convince him.

“I’mma show ya my notes,” he says softly, and then hands the deputy the map and everything he’s collected so far, including the printed out excerpts about Jim and Sophia. He steps away from him to let him look through the notes, and he hopes to high heavens that Rick won’t discard all of this. It’s flimsy as far as evidence goes, admittedly, at least for anyone who can’t talk to the murdered girl herself, but maybe it’s enough to plant a sliver of doubt in Rick Grimes’ mind. A tiny bit is all that Daryl needs. 

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice calls from behind them. Daryl whirls around in surprise and sees a woman with short dark hair, in her twenties, dressed in jeans and a white shirt; she’s biting her lip as she looks at him with what appears to be hope on her face.

“I couldn’t help but overhear you arguing,” she says, “and I needed to ask… Were you talking about Beth?”

Daryl looks back at the deputy. Rick hesitates, but then nods, apparently as curious about what’s going on as Daryl is.

The woman gives a mighty sigh of relief. “Thank God,” she says. “Please follow me. I need to talk to you, and I don’t want to be overheard.”

Daryl follows after the woman and is pleased to note Rick’s going after him. They walk until they reach the big barn. The woman opens the door and lets them inside, then closes it behind her and looks carefully around to make sure there’s nobody there. Once she’s done with her inspection, she sits down on a stack of hay and motions for them to do the same.

Daryl sits and feels a pleasant shiver go through him when Rick sits down next to him so close their thighs press against one another. It’s like despite the man being angry with him, he can no more stay away from Daryl than Daryl can from him.

“My name’s Maggie Greene,” the woman introduces herself, obviously for Daryl’s benefit since Rick must’ve met her before, given his familiarity with the Greenes. “I’m Beth’s older sister. I… heard you guys say she wasn’t taken on Sunday?”

Looking over for signs of Rick’s disapproval, but seeing none, Daryl nods to Maggie. “I got a theory she mighta been taken sooner ‘n that,” he admits carefully. 

Maggie lets out a shaky breath. “I think you’re right,” she says seriously. “I didn’t want to say anything because I have no proof whatsoever, but. If I’m not the only one, then maybe it’s actually true.”

Rick looks at her, eyes narrowed. “What’s made you think this?”

“Well, I… I know my sister,” Maggie replies. “I know who she’s friends with, and, well, Penny Blake isn’t her friend. They know each other, they’re polite because they’re in the choir, but they’re not friendly at all. Truth is, they barely even know each other. They’re in the same year, but they don’t share any classes besides gym I think.”

“So ya don’t think Beth woulda gone over to that Penny’s place even if she really felt sick,” Daryl guesses.

Maggie nods in agreement. “Even if she didn’t have any other friends in the choir - and she does, by the way, there’s Ellie Charmsfield, and Martha and Trudy Lincoln too. But even if she didn’t have friends there, Beth wouldn’t have gone with the Blakes. They’re just not that friendly. She would’ve come home instead, or she would’ve asked the pastor to call daddy. She could’ve called daddy herself! She had the phone with her. I don’t know why, but Penny must be lying.”

“There’s also the doctor’s note,” Rick reminds her softly.

Maggie scoffs. “Wouldn’t be hard to forge. Milton Mamet, the town’s doctor, everyone knows he’s friends with Philip Blake. That’s Penny’s father,” she explains.

“Didn’t Beth contact you, though? Didn’t she call the house to say she’d stay at Penny’s for a few nights?” Rick asks. It’s obvious he’s doing it to counter Maggie’s theories with what he’s learned so far from the investigation.

But Maggie doesn’t give up. “She didn’t call,” she says. “She texted her mom. My step-mother,” she explains. “Uhm. The text said she had a sore throat and talking hurt. It also said it’s better if nobody came to get her until she’s better ‘cause she didn’t want to spread the germs.”

Daryl frowns. “Didn’cha find that suspicious?”

Maggie shakes her head and there’s guilt clearly visible on her face. “To be honest, I thought she was going through a rebellious phase or something. Maybe she got a boyfriend and wanted to spend time with him, that’s why she made up that excuse. But then the doctor’s note turned up, and _ then _ she didn’t show up in church… And I can’t help but wonder, what if it wasn’t really Beth who wrote those texts? What if it was whoever kidnapped her? And the Blakes and Mamet are accomplices?”

Rick stares at her. “Maggie… Why didn’t you say anything before this?” He asks. “Didn’t you think you could trust me with your suspicions? How long have we known each other, huh?”

“That’s got nothing to do with it,” the woman says, shaking her head. “Rick, you’re my favorite cousin and probably a good cop, but once you have a theory, you don’t really see flaws in it even when someone points them out. Isn’t that why the two of you argued out there?” 

Rick sighs, sheepish suddenly. “Yeah… sort of,” he mutters. “Thank you for telling us about this,” he adds. “I’ll make some inquiries, see if this new theory can hold. And Daryl can continue investigating it in the meantime. Is that okay?” 

Maggie and Daryl both agree, and then the three of them leave the barn. Maggie heads back towards the house and Rick walks with Daryl towards the gates. 

“Ya believe me now?” Daryl asks softly, without any of the previous irritation in his voice. He can accept that all of this has been hard on the deputy. Rick has some personal involvement with this case, which explains his easy familiarity with the Greenes; no wonder he’s not exactly thrilled about Daryl’s claim regarding Beth’s status. He probably hoped he’d be able to find his younger cousin alive and well. 

“Not all of it,” Rick replies with a huff. “But… some of it makes sense. The doctor who wrote the note, that was in fact Milton Mamet. It didn’t really seem suspicious to me before, he’s one of the town’s two physicians, but when Maggie pointed it out like that… Well. It’s hard to just dismiss it now.”

“So yer not arrestin’ me?” Daryl asks, unable to let go of the tiny bit of a grudge. 

Rick rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not arresting you,” he replies, “but I might be inclined to use handcuffs on you later if you annoy me. Or if you’re good. I haven’t decided yet. Now, we gotta make plans. I can’t exactly include you and your… uhhh… visions, or something, in the official investigation. But it might give us an advantage.”

“Oh?” Daryl asks, choosing to ignore the _ handcuffs _ thing for the time being because if he thinks about it too much, he might pop a very unfortunate boner right here and now.

“Well, see, people see the uniform and they don’t really wanna talk,” Rick explains. “Not to mention, I’m not from here. I’m originally from Sommer County, so even though I’m literally your neighbor, everyone still sort of sees me as a rival. It’s all fun and games until it interferes with the investigation. You, though, you’re local.”

“And sorta hated by everyone,” Daryl reminds him.

“Still local,” Rick insists. “They might not like you, but they’re more likely to let their guard down around you. I need you to be my ears, Daryl. I need you to ask around and listen to what they might be saying between the lines.”

“I can try,” Daryl says, “but ain’t makin’ no promises. I’m bad at talkin’ to people, Rick, in case ya haven’t noticed.”

The man chuckles at that. “Yeah, you are,” he agrees fondly and briefly touches Daryl’s hand. It’s strangely reassuring. 

They reach the gate and Daryl notes that Beth is waiting there for him, more relaxed than before and certainly no longer angry with him, judging from her mischievous smile.

“Are you on a date right now?” She asks in a teasing tone. “Am I interrupting your date?”

Daryl sighs. “Shut up,” he mutters.

“Excuse me?” Rick asks, blinking in surprise.

“Not you,” Daryl assures him. “‘s just… Beth is here.” 

“Oh my God, Daryl! Did you tell him? I hope you didn’t tell my daddy, too? I told you you shouldn’t tell the whole truth!” Beth exclaims, all aflutter like a huffy bird.

“It’s fine, calm down,” Daryl says. He’s feeling that headache incoming. “Had to tell him to get him on the right track,” he explains to the ghost girl. To Rick, he mumbles, “Sorry, I know this looks like I’m talkin’ to myself…”

“Yeah,” Rick replies weakly, “it looks really weird. Are you sure you’re not, you know…”

“Crazy? Yeah, relatively,” Daryl assures. “You an’ Beth are family, yes?”

“Not exactly,” Beth says, “Maggie’s mom and Rick’s dad were siblings, so technically only they are related. But I’ve known Rick all my life, and he’s always been like a big brother to me. Well, except for when I had a crush on him. But that doesn’t count. Everyone’s had a crush on Rick at some point.”

At the same time, Rick says, “Yes, the Greenes are my family,” and he looks so very serious as he says it, like it’s very important to him.

Daryl smiles. “Yep, sounds like Beth thinks the same, even though y’all ain’t related by blood ‘cept for you an’ Maggie,” he says. 

Rick’s eyes widen. “How do you know that?”

Shrugging, Daryl replies, “Beth told me. Ya might consider believin’ me, y’know. Anyways, I gotta go. Need to meet Carol, then maybe I’s gonna see that doctor dude. He ain’t the toughest guy, far as I remember. Figure, he might get scared of my reputation an’ tattle if he got somethin’ to hide.”

He notices Rick is looking at him strangely, so he shrugs. “Gotta do what I can, right?”

“He’s going to kiss you,” Beth announces with an excited giggle.

She’s right, and Rick does, and Daryl can’t help but kiss right back.

*

Just as he planned, Daryl goes to see Carol at the school again, and finds her at the cafeteria this time. For a little moment as he sees the woman, he thinks he might be hallucinating, because in the light of the October sun falling from the window, Carol looks almost exactly the same she did back when they were both kids. But then Carol shifts as she notices him and the illusion is gone; still, the brief memory of the older girl who sort of took him under her wing back when he needed a friendly face the most fills Daryl with an almost unbearable fondness. He wishes, for a moment, that he could’ve liked her the way she may have liked him at some point. He wishes for many things. 

“You look nice today,” Carol observes with a smile, which is a completely different reaction Daryl expected from her after how she exploded at him yesterday.

He blinks, confused. Truth is, for the first time in forever, he took care of his appearance this morning. Clipped his beard, brushed his hair, put on a marginally newer pair of jeans and a shirt which actually fits him under his usual leather vest. He wanted to look his best when he went to see Hershel Greene, not that there was much possible improvement for someone with his sort of face. Still, it’s good to know the effort paid off.

He wonders if Rick noticed anything different. Probably not. The man doesn’t know him, hasn’t been seeing him every other day for the last few decades, so he’s most likely oblivious to unimportant details like that. He’s got enough on his head either way.

“Ain’t that what I’m supposed to say to y’all? Seein’ so you’s a lady an’ all,” Daryl grumbles and, when prompted, takes a seat across from Carol at the table. This is familiar in spite of the years that passed between the last time they sat together in this exact spot and now. Daryl half expects Carol to push her tray towards him so they can share the meal. 

“That’s sexist, Mr. Dixon,” the woman informs him with a flicker of mischief in her eyes as she scoffs at him. “Don’t deny the fine men of this world their chance to get some praise when you folks primp up.”

“Didn’t primp up,” Daryl mutters, rolling his eyes. “Ya make it sound like I’m some sorta hobo normally. Ain’t that bad.”

“Well, at least you don’t wear those band t-shirts you snapped up at the garage sale in Delilah that time we went to the movies,” Carol admits. 

Daryl doesn’t tell her that he does absolutely still wear those t-shirts sometimes, even though they’re faded, one has a big hole in the armpit area and the other is too tight across the shoulders. And he doesn’t only wear them at home. He’s a slob. 

“So, what’s your decision about the truck?” Carol asks after a moment of comfortable silence when Daryl allows her to eat in peace. 

“... what’s yer stance on installments?” He asks back, sheepish. Honestly, he doesn’t need Ed’s old truck, even if it’s considerably newer and in a better shape than his old piece of crap. Thing is, fixing up that old piece of junk is sort of a point of honor for him. He’s been managing it for so long, it would feel like betrayal or something if he suddenly abandoned the truck for a better, shinier model he can’t even afford.

So now he identifies with an old broken truck.

Carol gives him a very sharp glance before she sighs and looks down at the still half-full plate in front of her. She pushes the tray to Daryl, completing their long-lost school tradition. “Eat,” she demands, and Daryl has no choice but to pick up her discarded fork and finish the curry she’s been eating. 

It’s not the most delicious thing Daryl’s ever eaten, but it’s still damn good, and even if it weren’t, it’s free food. And anyway, it’s far from the worst thing he’s eaten, too, so really. No reason to complain. Actually, he’s got all the reason to be grateful.

“What did you really approach me for, Daryl?” Carol asks softly once Daryl’s done all but licking the plate clean. “I know it ain’t about the truck. You’ve been out of a job for a few weeks now. You’re probably starving daily. So what’s this really about?”

Daryl sighs because… he doesn’t want to lie. He told the truth to a guy he’s known for all of a couple of days, so he’s having trouble justifying hiding it from the woman who he thinks, despite his best efforts to the contrary, is actually his friend. At least she doesn’t want anything in return for showing him kindness which is more than he can tell about anyone else he’s been on good terms with so far.

“’s about Beth Greene,” he says finally, then pauses and licks his lips. “Got reason to think whatever’s happened to her, ‘s the same shit what happened to your Sophia.”

The expression on Carol’s face becomes strangely closed off as soon as she hears her daughter’s name. “Daryl-”

“Please at least listen to me,” Daryl begs. “Rick, I mean Deputy Grimes, he’s done agreed with me. I’m sorta here on his behalf,” he says, and it’s not exactly true, but it’s not a lie either, so he can live with that. “Carol, I wouldna dragged yer girl into this if it ain’t been important.”

“Ed is in prison, Daryl,” Carol says, firm but patient, like she’s explaining something to a particularly dense student. “He can’t have anything to do with this. He’s in prison.”

“What I’m sayin’ is,” Daryl hesitates, looks around, notices Sophia seated on top of a windowsill at the back of the cafeteria. The little girl smiles at him, nods in greeting. Daryl swallows down the nervousness and continues, “I’m sayin’, we don’t think Ed did this to neither of ‘em. Not to Beth, not to Sophia.”

It’s difficult to look at the effect the words have on Carol, because Daryl hates to see this woman cry. She’s been through so much shit in her life and she doesn’t deserve any more of it, as far as he’s concerned; but he looks because he reckons, he owes it to her. He’s the one who brought the news. He’s the reason her eyes well up with tears and her lips tremble, and she hides her face into her hands, trying to muffle a wretched sob. Daryl just sits there, awkwardly waiting for her to calm down. He doesn’t even have a handkerchief he could get in an attempt to offer comfort. 

Finally, the moment of weakness passes and Carol finds her own handkerchief. She dabs at her eyes, blows her nose, then picks up the glass of juice she’s had with lunch and downs it in one big swig. After that, her expression becomes carefully neutral.

“You say you’re working with Deputy Grimes on this,” she says softly. 

Daryl nods in affirmation.

“So if I called him right now at the station, he wouldn’t be surprised to hear about it? He wouldn’t be asking who the hell is Daryl Dixon?”

Daryl sighs. “Can give you his private cell number,” he offers. “We’re… sorta, y’know. Friends,” he adds. It’s not what he and Rick Grimes are, but he’s not sure if he’s ready to out himself as gay. Himself and the deputy who probably isn’t. He’s just. Having fun with no strings attached. Anyway.

“You’re friends with a cop?” Carol asks, not bothering to hide the dubious lift of both her eyebrows.

And okay, the Dixons may not have the best track record with the law. Daryl himself has had bad run-ins with Deputy Walsh and his buddies, that’s true. But he’s not a criminal, he’s never done worse than hunt outside the season when he was broke and hungry. He didn’t even usually call the cops _ pigs _ like Merle, not unless he was particularly pissed off with Walsh. 

“Don’t matter he’s a cop,” he says simply, shrugging. “Ya believe me or not?”

“Okay, I do. Got no choice but to believe, you, do I?” Carol acquiesces and then hesitates. “... so what do you need to know?”

“Anythin’ ya can tell me,” Daryl says softly. “Tell me what ya remember. That night, days before it happened, an’ after. Anyone suspicious ya met, things like that.”

“The police already asked all that,” Carol replies in gentle protest. But she looks like she’s built up some resolve now, and so she continues. “There was nothing strange that happened before nor after. Nobody arrived in town, nobody left. And… Are you sure Ed didn’t?... Because he confessed to it. He was found guilty, and he confessed to k-killing my baby-”

Her voice breaks as a fresh wave of tears spills from her eyes, and Daryl looks away in shame. But then he sees Sophia standing next to her mother, patting her reassuringly on the back, and even though Carol can’t rightly know she’s there, Daryl feels somewhat better. Because he will get to the bottom of this. He will find whoever really killed these girls, and, fuck, he will clock that pumpkin-pie bastard in the jaw for what he did. 

“Ask her about the apples,” Sophia suggests, and Daryl blinks because he doesn’t have any context for this. 

“The apples,” the little girl repeats impatiently. “We was sent a crate of apples but mommy said we didn’t order any. It was a week before everything, I think? Mommy made apple pie.”

Daryl hums thoughtfully and asks Carol, “Didn’t you mention an apple delivery came that week? Think Grimes said somethin’ like that.”

The woman bites down on her lower lip, frowning in concentration as she attempts to remember. “Yes,” she says after a moment, “there was a crate on the porch, it was addressed to Sophia. I never found out who delivered it, though. Do you think it’s connected? I’m pretty sure I never mentioned it to the police back then…”

“What’d ya do with ‘em?” Daryl asks. If Sophia thinks it’s important, he’s going to be thorough about it. Though, he supposes, it’s not all that strange. If there’s anything King County actually does have in abundance, besides dickheads working in the Sheriff’s Department, it’s apple orchards. There are more apples in the right season than anybody knows what to do with. Daryl worked in one of the orchards last year. The pickers were explicitly told to only pick the pretty, shiny apples and leave all the others behind on the trees. Apparently, the lesser quality weren’t worth enough for anyone to be bothered selling them. That’s why anyone could just go to the orchard with their own crates and pick as many of those lesser quality apples as they could carry, all for free.

Daryl had apples for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the following month. 

“I baked them into pies,” Carol says, smiling a little, fond at the memory for once. “Sophia, she… she loved pies. All sorts. Apple pies, pumpkin pies, peach, even plum. We had apple pie every day for the whole week, she was so ecstatic about it.”

“Anythin’ at all seem suspicious ‘bout the crate?” Daryl asks. 

Beth touches his shoulder to get his attention. “We got some apples delivered, too, at the beginning of September,” she says. “A crate, it wasn’t signed or anything. Is that suspicous? I don’t know, most everyone gets some apples this way when the weather’s been right for the harvest…”

Well now, it’s weak, but there’s another connection. It might be nothing. Probably is. But it might be something, too, and damn him if he’s going to miss a clue.

“The crate had a logo at the bottom, I think,” Carol says. “I only remember because it wasn’t any of the local orchards. I could check at home, if you’d like, I think the crate is still there in the cellar.”

“Yea,” Daryl agrees, “lemme know.”

They sit there in a somewhat awkward silence for some time. Carol finds another handkerchief and wipes her eyes, getting rid of the last pieces of evidence of her breakdown.

“Mommy cries every day,” Sophia says sadly. “Do you think she’ll stop one day?”

Daryl inclines his head in a barely perceptible nod, or at least he hopes it’s not obvious. He reaches out and touches Carol’s shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

“Me an’ Rick, we’re gonna do everythin’ we can to solve this,” he promises.

Carol nods, then asks, “Do you think she’s alive?”

When Daryl frowns, she clarifies: “Beth Greene. I… don’t have much hope for my Sophia,” she adds and sniffles, trying to contain another teary outburst with some success.

And Daryl wishes he had something better to tell her, something more optimistic. He wishes he could tell her maybe both girls are still alive, maybe they can be found and returned to their families. But he can’t do that, because the ghosts of both girls are looking at the woman with pity in their eyes, and it’s almost the anniversary of Sophia’s disappearance, and Daryl can’t bring himself to lie.

So instead he doesn’t say anything, and he sits with Carol for a few more minutes before the bell rings to signal the end of the lunch break. 

*

Daryl’s never been to the part of town where Mayor Blake lives, simply because he’s never had any business there. It’s in the suburbs, if there can be a suburb in a town that’s basically the size of a suburb itself. The immediate neighborhood is comprised of a handful of villas which look mighty out of place with their over-the-top splendor. Daryl’s seen big houses alright. Hershel Greene’s farmhouse is really huge by all standards, but it’s not overwhelming in its hugeness. The manors here, they all look like their sole purpose in existence is to show off their owners’ wealth. 

Obviously, the mayor lives there, in the gaudiest house Daryl’s ever witnessed in real life; his closest neighbors are the Walshes on one side, Negan with his wife on the other, and Doctor Mamet with his mom in the house across the street. The most pleasant crowd in the world. Daryl thinks if the place got anymore rotten, it would actually start to stink.

He’s all out of ideas on how to actually approach Penny Blake to ask her some questions. He hoped he’d have caught her at the school, but to be honest, he doesn’t know what the girl looks like and anyway, it would’ve looked very suspicious if he went around the school pestering young girls. His reputation is bad enough as it is. So now here he is, on the street in front of the garish golden gate of Mayor Blake’s property, and he’s not sure how to proceed.

Because there’s no fucking way they’re going to let him in. 

“Sir,” a girly voice says from behind him. 

Daryl frowns, turning to face the owner of the voice, and sees a young teenage girl, maybe fourteen or something. Slightly younger than Beth. She stares at him curiously and Daryl stares back, and Beth announces:

“Well aren’t we lucky? This is Penny, you can ask her stuff.”

It’s… very lucky indeed. So much so, Daryl immediately feels suspicious. But the girl continues to simply look at him, like she’s trying to figure out what a piece of redneck trash is doing in front of her house where it definitely doesn’t belong. 

“Can I help you, sir?” She asks eventually. She doesn’t sound stuck-up and annoying, unlike Daryl thought any daughter of Blake would, and it’s so strange. 

“Uh… I was actually hopin’ to talk to ya,” he mutters. “Yer Penny Blake?” 

“Yes,” the girl admits. She passes Daryl to approach the gate, opens it with a key card and motions him inside. “You’re Daryl Dixon, right, sir?”

Daryl nods. “Ya know me?”

“I think so,” Penny replies with a smile. “You’re the one who killed Beth, aren’t you?”

Frowning, Daryl takes a step back. “What the fuck,” he mutters. “Ain’t killed nobody. Who’s been tellin’ ya such things?”

“Daryl… something’s strange,” Beth warns him, as if Daryl was stupid.

“I uh, I just have some questions,” he says. For once, he regrets having entered the property. It feels like he has nowhere to run, now that the girl closed the gate behind them. 

Penny nods. “They told me you might. Is it about the Sunday when I walked Beth to church?”

“Did ya?” Daryl asks.

“That’s what I said. There’s no reason to think otherwise, is there?”

It’s like she’s waiting for something. Penny looks at Daryl expectantly, polite and proper, and he feels like he’s the one being questioned.

“She… she ever mention a reason she mighta wanted to, like, not go to church?” He asks, hoping to reverse the situation, to pull Penny’s tongue, get her to admit she’s been lying. Anything. 

But the girl giggles, like his attempt is amusing. “Mr. Dixon, you’re funny. Why are you asking me? I already told the police that Beth had a boyfriend in secret.”

That’s… new. Rick never mentioned it. 

“But don’t worry. I haven’t told them it’s you,” Penny adds, and pats him on the forearm. “It wouldn’t look good for you if I did. An older secret boyfriend, a disappearance… They’d never believe you, would they?”

Daryl wonders if he can frown any harder. “This is bullshit,” he says. He’s trying to puzzle out what the girl’s intentions are, while next to him, Beth seethes helplessly. Rick… wouldn’t believe that crap, would he? The others, sure, but Rick would trust Daryl. Even if what Blake’s spoiled little shit is suggesting may sound much more realistic than seeing fucking ghosts. 

Is he in deep shit?

“It doesn’t matter,” Penny informs him. “Daddy said someone might come asking stupid questions. He didn’t say it would happen this soon, though,” she sighs dramatically. “I’ve already lied so much. Do you want to know the truth?”

“Yeah,” Daryl mutters, but he’s not sure he wants her version of it. He’s got no doubt the lies are just about to begin.

Penny beams at him. “Alright! I’ll tell you the truth.”

And then she says, “Beth wasn’t really sick after that choir practice on Wednesday. But you know that, don’t you? She asked me to help her with a cover story because she wanted to spend a few days with her boyfriend. She said, her boyfriend was very sad lately. He’s been out of a job, and it made him irritable. So she wanted to spend more time with him, improve his mood. But the thing is, he’s much older than her, so her daddy wouldn’t approve. I loved Beth like a sister, so I agreed to help. I so regret it now,” she sighs in an obviously exaggerated fashion. “I only saw Beth once since after that practice, on Sunday, we walked together to church. She told me she wanted to break up with her boyfriend. He was violent, she said. He got drunk a lot and tried to do things to her. So she wanted to break up with him. In fact, we saw him in front of the church and Beth went to talk to him. That’s the last time I saw her.”

“Yer lyin’,” Daryl says flatly.

“No, you’re lying, Mr. Dixon,” Penny informs him with a cunning smile. “Because it was you I saw with Beth that Sunday, wasn’t it? You got angry that she wanted to leave you and you killed her. You probably raped her before you finished her off, too. That’s what people like you do to proper nice girls.”

“Why are ya sayin’ this?” Daryl asks, and he starts to walk away, heading back towards the gate.

“Daryl, the police are here,” Beth hisses in warning. She tugs on his arm, attempting to drag him back to the gate, to escape.

And Daryl realizes what this is about even before Penny smirks at him, then makes a tearful, frightened noise and screams in a high pitch:

“Oh God, please, no, no! Let me go! Daddy, help me!”

There’s a commotion at the gate, and Daryl runs towards the fence, tries to scale it; then there are hands on him, pulling him down, and somebody punches him, and Deputy Walsh handcuffs him and pushes him roughly.

“Now ain’t this my lucky day,” the cop says in a low, dangerous tone. “Daryl Dixon, you’re under arrest for the murder of Beth Greene. You got the right to remain silent, but please, do me a favor and fuck this up.”

As Daryl’s being hauled to the back of the squad car, blood pounding loudly in his ears and almost drowning out Beth’s repeated apologies, one thing pierces through the feeling of panic that threatens to overwhelm him:

Shane Walsh smells like cinnamon and nutmeg.


	5. Ghost in the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:  
This chapter contains a description of a corpse which might be upsetting. It certainly was upsetting to me. Nothing very graphic, but still.  
Trigger warning for description of bodies in various stages of decay.  
Also, violence of the beating up kind.

While it’s true that people in small towns know everything about one another, there are still a lot of things the townsfolk of North Hanging don’t know about Daryl Dixon. For example, the fact that he actually has a high-profile lawyer from Atlanta has so far remained a mystery. Not anymore; Daryl can’t help the dark satisfaction well up in his gut at the way the smug smirk melts off of Walsh’s face when a blond-haired, impeccably dressed young woman enters the interrogation room and, without so much as looking at him, sits down in the chair next to Daryl.

“And who the hell’re you?” The deputy asks darkly.

The woman offers him a professional smile which, frankly speaking, Daryl’s always found at least a little scary. “My name is Andrea Harrison,” she introduces herself, “and I am Mr. Dixon’s defence attorney.”

“You’re shittin’ me,” Walsh mutters under his breath. 

It’s been three hours since Daryl’s been hauled into the interrogation room. They didn’t let him call anyone; the right to a phone call is a Hollywood myth, honestly, especially at this point of an arrest. Walsh only punched him twice so far, which is really a sign of his good mood. Daryl expected much worse. He’s quite sure the cameras here are conveniently turned off or directed the other way. He doesn’t know who actually got Andrea for him, but fuck, he’s grateful. He’s not that convinced he would’ve left this room in one piece otherwise.

Andrea nods at him in greeting, then turns to Walsh and says amicably, “I’ve heard a lot about you, Deputy Walsh.”

“Any of it good?” Walsh asks, physically unable to stop being an arrogant, flirtatious jock in front of an attractive woman regardless of how inconvenient he finds her presence.

Andrea regards him, deadpan, and replies, “No.”

Despite the gravity of his situation, Daryl snickers at how Walsh’s pretense of friendliness falls and gives way to an ugly scowl. That’s how Andrea works. She’s magical.

“I would like a few minutes alone with my client,” the woman announces, giving Walsh and the others a look which clearly dares them to challenge her.

“Listen, lady, he’s a dangerous degenerate,” one of the cops warns. 

Andrea chuckles. “Of course,” she says, “but he’s shackled to the table. So even if anything you were saying about my client were true - be careful, I _ will _sue for infamy if I have to - even then, I would still remain perfectly safe.” 

The cuffs are tight around Daryl’s wrists, like they’re woman-sized or something. Are there different sizes for men and women? He doesn’t know. Feels like it. He considers complaining about them, but decides against it. Andrea’s got her work cut out for her anyway; before she arrived, Walsh as good as told him they have enough to pin this entire shit on him.

“Once we’re done with you, it ain’t gonna matter if you confess or not,” the deputy informed him. “Gonna spend the rest of your life in jail, ‘less we can get you the death sentence. That would be something, now wouldn’t it?”

So now Daryl’s a bit worried. Not about his legal rights, Andrea is one of the best lawyers in the state, so he’s covered there. But if Walsh is so sure of himself that he thinks Daryl might get the capital punishment… well. This is more of a set up than he thought it was.

“Y’all got ten minutes,” Walsh barks unhappily, and the cops clear out of the interrogation room.

Andrea waits until the door closes, then sighs. “What have you gotten yourself into this time, Daryl? Obviously you’re not guilty, but…”

“‘s an Amy situation,” Daryl explains quickly. 

A couple years ago, when Andrea was still in law school, her younger sister died in a hit-and-run by a drunk driver. Andrea blamed herself because she refused to pick Amy up from evening classes that night on account of having to study for an exam. Convincing her that it wasn’t her fault and Amy didn’t blame her was one of the most difficult things Daryl’s ever done. He had to essentially kidnap the young woman, drive her out of the city to a fishing spot that allegedly, only she and Amy even knew. They spent a few hours there on a boat, the woman looking for all intents and purposes like she was considering how best to drown her captor. But then, Daryl said,

“Ya know, fishin’ was never ‘bout the technique for me, growin’ up. Amy here, she’s sayin’ yer doin’ shit wrong. Not like yer daddy taught her. Some shit ‘bout knots and stuff. Dunno.”

“You’re crazy,” Andrea told him.

Daryl agreed. “Ain’t nothin’ for it. Thing is, she’s harpin’ on me that yer doin’ it wrong, the knots. Also that I should throw the small ones back, ‘cause it’s cruel or somethin’.”

“She always did that,” Andrea muttered. “If we went together, I was the only one bringing any fish back. Her entire haul always ended up back in the lake.”

“She liked eatin’ fish, though,” Daryl said, shrugging. 

“She did,” Andrea admitted.

After that, she believed Daryl and didn’t end up drowning him after all. They spent the day together, the three of them: Daryl, Andrea and the ghost of Amy Harrison. They ended up returning all the fish into the water, then went for a walk in the woods. Andrea talked the most, about Amy’s childhood and how she and her sister were so different. Daryl shared a story or two, just so that it wasn’t completely awkward. To be honest, it was a nice day out, overall, and at the end of it, Amy gave Daryl a hug. 

“She forgave herself,” she said, happy, and that was it. 

For some reason, Andrea remained in contact with Daryl afterwards, even though Daryl didn’t exactly encourage her to. With this entire case turning out as it is, he’s beginning to realize he might have more friends than he’s given himself credit for. 

Andrea rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Of course it’s another Amy situation,” she says. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“A girl been taken, they’s tryin’ to pin it on me,” Daryl replies and sighs. “Got themselves a witness, even. Come up with this far-fetched story that I been datin’ that girl. Killed her ‘cause she wanted to break up. Y’know, ‘cause I’m a mean drunk. But it ain’t been me, Andrea. I ain’t killed nobody in my life.”

“I believe you,” the lawyer tells him without hesitation. “But the question is, can we prove it?”

“... Will it help that I’m gay?” Daryl asks, looking down at his hands on the table. 

“Sure, if you’re not just saying that,” Andrea says. “Any, uh, partners willing to corroborate it?”

Daryl curses inwardly. “Nope,” he lies. He’s not getting Rick involved in this. The man might already hate him, might believe Daryl’s a murderer; he’s not sure, he hasn’t seen Rick since the farm, so he doesn’t know how the deputy reacted to all of this. But, regardless, Daryl’s not dragging Rick Grimes into his shit pool. 

Andrea sighs. “In that case, I’m afraid we can’t use it. Okay, you know what, I’ll work on that later. For now, I’ll get you out of here. The arrest was made on bullshit charges, your face looks like it met with a bulldozer, so there’s inhumane treatment on the table. Plus denial of your right to attorney.”

That reminds him. “Who told you I was arrested, anyway?” Daryl asks. 

Andrea blinks. “Oh. I don’t know,” she replies sincerely. “I was minding my own business when I suddenly got messages on all my emails, social media private inboxes, on my pager, even on the old fax machine. I thought it was a prank, so I called here and a nice deputy called Grimes confirmed you were arrested. So here I am.”

Rick. Rick helped get Daryl’s attorney here. Of course, the messages sound like Jesus’ work, which Daryl is grateful for even if it signifies a level-up in stalkerism for the hacker; that doesn’t change the fact that Rick knew what charges Daryl was arrested on, and still he decided to do something in Daryl’s favor. Even if he believes Daryl is guilty, at least he did the right thing.

The cops return to the room and Walsh sits down in front of Daryl, a sour expression on his face. “Hope your girly gossip went well,” he mocks. 

“Oh, it went very well, thank you,” Andrea informs him with the same scary professional smile she had as she entered the room. “I will be asking for the release of my client, effective immediately.”

“Denied,” Walsh says. “We have twenty-four hours to question him, means there’s twenty-three hours left.” 

“That would be right, but only if you had a valid charge for the arrest,” Andrea counters. “Can you tell me what is the reason for Mr. Dixon’s arrest?”

“You know full well what it is,” Walsh snaps.

“For the record, please,” Andrea demands, calm, dangerous and absolutely amazing. 

Walsh doesn’t even realize he’s being played. He rolls his eyes, like he’s humoring the woman, and states, “He was arrested for the murder of Elizabeth Mary Greene. A sixteen-year old girl, Ms. Harrison.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Andrea says. “I was not aware, however, that the body was found. When did it happen?”

Walsh frowns, confused. “What? No, it wasn’t found,” he says.

“Then how do you know Beth Greene is dead?” Andrea asks. “As far as I know, the girl is missing. Unless you have any further information you are withholding, Deputy Walsh?”

Walsh growls, then grits his teeth. “Probable cause, then,” he snaps. “Don’t have to charge him yet, can still hold him twenty-four hours.”

“Oh? That’s interesting, because this file I was given at the reception clearly states my client is charged for murder. Yet, we don’t even know if this murder took place,” Andrea says. “We will graciously agree to three questions, Deputy Walsh, as a display of goodwill. However, this is under the condition that another officer will conduct this interrogation. I have reason to suspect you bear ill will towards my client.”

“That’s bullshit,” Walsh hisses.

There’s a sound of the intercom buzz, and Walsh glares at Daryl before he grabs a folder from the table and heads out of the room. The door doesn’t close all the way when he leaves, so Daryl and Andrea can hear the unmistakable noises of people arguing, before the door opens and Rick Grimes enters the room, with a folder in hand, and closes the door carefully. He takes a seat across from Daryl.

“I’m Deputy Rick Grimes,” he introduces himself, “and I will be asking the questions, if that’s alright, Mr. Dixon.”

Andrea looks at Daryl and, when he nods, she replies, “It’s acceptable.”

Rick opens the folder, looks at the papers in there. “Let me just confirm the documentation is correct, please. This is not part of the interrogation, just the acknowledgment that all data we have in possession is up to date.”

“Sure,” Daryl mutters.

Rick nods at him. “Your name is Daryl Dixon, born on October thirty-first, 1988 to William Dixon and Susan Laherty. Twenty-nine years old. Currently unemployed. Blood type B positive. No living relatives. Is this all correct?”

Daryl sighs. “Yeah,” he says.

Merle’s damn beer bottles have been in the fridge for the last two years. Merle’s bedroom is still the same mess his brother left it before he left, when he was deployed to Iraq. Daryl never had the heart to clean it up. Not after Merle returned, just popped up in the house out of nowhere, dressed in full army garb and grumbling about not having had a decent drink in ages. The letter from the military came a week later. Merle died in action, it said. Extraordinary bravery. Selfless sacrifice for the good of his country. There was talk of medals and commendations. 

Daryl burned the letter and cried in his iron-reinforced room, pretending he didn’t hear Merle’s bitching from outside. 

“Yeah, I’m alone,” he says, and he thinks he can see a flicker of sympathy in Rick’s face, but it might just be a trick of the lighting.

“Alright, so that’s it for the formalities,” the deputy announces and closes his folder. “I will go with a stereotypical question first: can you tell me where you were on Sunday, September the twenty-third?”

Daryl can. “Huntin’,” he replies without thinking. “Was in the woods south of Delilah. Got a ticket for speedin’ when I’s goin’ back at, I think, nine in the evenin’.”

Of course, he crumpled and threw away that ticket like he does with every other he gets, but he knows they get put in the system. So it can be checked. Not very good, as far as alibis go, because it still leaves the whole day unaccounted for, but it’s something. He was seen in another county that day. 

“Bought some shit at a gas station outside of Delilah, too,” he remembers. “Smokes an’ gas lighter. But that was in the mornin’. Before the hunt. Some… five, five-thirty? Best go huntin’ in the early mornin’, for catchin’ any bigger game. Been huntin’ deer.”

Rick nods. “So you contest a witness’ statement that you were present outside of the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus at eleven-forty AM, before the noon mass?”

“Ain’t been in or around a church in years,” Daryl agrees.

Andrea pipes in, “Technically, that was the second question,” she reminds Rick. He makes a face, something between a scowl and a smirk, and Daryl suddenly realizes that the man has absolutely no intention of asking him anything incriminating. Whatever Walsh may think, whatever Penny Blake might be making up, Rick believes in Daryl’s innocence.

So Daryl says, “‘s fine, let him ask two more,” and he looks up at Rick without hesitation. 

“You’ll have to kiss him as soon as you’re out of here,” Beth says, grinning wildly. “Also, I’m pretty sure your lawyer lady has you all figured out.”

Andrea just nods without a word of protest, but she gives Daryl and then Rick a calculating look. Yeah, she’s noticed something alright. She probably wouldn’t have if Daryl didn’t mention being gay earlier, but hell, what’s done is done. At least she’s a city girl. She’s not going to judge.

“Mr. Dixon, did you know Elizabeth Greene or anybody in her family before the disappearance?” Rick asks.

It’s almost like he doesn’t already know the answer to that. Daryl almost rolls his eyes. “Nope,” he says. “I knew of ‘em Greenes, of course, everyone knows of ‘em. Had a job offer lined up at the farm, but ain’t gone. Took a job at the factory instead.”

“I’m sure the Greenes can confirm this statement,” Rick replies politely. “My last question, then: what were you doing on the property of Mayor Philip Blake today at three-thirty eight, when you were apprehended after alleged assault on the mayor’s daughter, Penelope Blake?”

Of course he’s got to ask this. Daryl rolls his eyes and decides to go with the truth. “Ain’t assaulted her,” he begins. “I went to ask stuff, ‘cause when I offered to help with trackin’ Beth Greene to her family - I’m a good tracker, as anyone - well when I went, I got told the story ‘bout the sickness an’ all that.. But I also met Maggie Greene. That’s Beth’s sister, an’ she says Penny Blake ain’t Beth’s friend. So I went to ask ‘bout that, and the lil’ girl got all in my face with accusations an’ screamin’. By the way, I ain’t ever seen _ her _ before neither.”

Rick sighs. “Of course,” he says. “Unfortunately, this is your word against hers, although admittedly, young miss Blake’s initial testimony seems to be contradicted by the fact there are no signs you so much as touched her. Her father doesn’t agree to a forensic examination, however.”

“Well, since my client was not arrested on any charges related to miss Penelope Blake, I propose you get back to us when you actually have a leg to stand on,” Andrea suggests, staring Rick down icily even while her smile never changes.

Unlike Walsh, though, Rick Grimes isn’t intimidated so easily. Maybe it’s because, unbeknownst to Andrea, they are both on the same side. 

He stands up. “I will arrange your discharge, Mr. Dixon. It may take up to an hour before everything is processed,” he says apologetically. But he moves forward and quickly uncuffs Daryl’s wrists, and Daryl knows that Andrea couldn’t have missed the way the deputy’s gaze lingers on the reddened circles on the skin there. 

“Fine, we’ll wait,” Andrea acquiesces. “Please keep Deputy Walsh away from my client, though. I am willing to overlook the bruises on my client’s face only under guarantee no further abuse will be committed.”

Daryl would actually prefer not to overlook the bruises, but on the other hand, he knows he’s getting off easily on a technicality. He doesn’t care much about the nuances of the law, but there’s definitely shit cops can do when they have a suspect in custody and want to keep him there. Basically, in his eagerness to get him in this interrogation room, Walsh made a mistake in paperology and, as a result, did Daryl a great old favor. It doesn’t mean the police won’t come haul him back to the station as soon as they get an arrest warrant. If Walsh is as desperate for a scapegoat, if the mayor’s daughter is in on this - well. It’s gonna happen, great lawyer or no. 

Only thing Daryl can do to help it is to find whoever killed Beth.

An hour later, more or less, an officer who isn’t Rick nor Shane Walsh comes with some papers for Daryl to sign. Andrea looks them over first and looks positively pissed off when one of them turns out to be an agreement to no relocate for the course of the investigation, but she has Daryl sign all of the papers anyway. 

“It’s for appearance’s sake,” she explains. “If you agree to stay put, it’s more believable that you’ve got nothing to fear from them.”

Daryl privately thinks there’s a lot he has to fear from the cops in North Hanging, the current state of his face being a case in point, but he doesn’t say anything. He won’t give these guys the satisfaction of knowing he’s somewhat afraid of what they can do. He just signs his name on the dotted lines on all provided forms, then follows Andrea outside of the interrogation room.

They see Rick on their way out of the station, seemingly engrossed in a conversation with some long-haired dude in a beanie hat. Who the hell wears a beanie hat inside? Stranger yet, how come Daryl doesn’t know the guy? Even just in passing, he should’ve seen the man in town somewhere. He hasn’t. 

“Ah, Mr. Dixon, may I borrow you for a second?” Rick asks, excusing himself to the weirdo in a hat. 

Andrea smirks at Daryl who valiantly tries not to acknowledge he’s blushing. “I’ll be in my car outside, don’t mind me,” she says and goes ahead.

Rick looks around. “Somewhere more private,” he mutters, and shows Daryl to a small evidence room that’s barely bigger than a broom closet. But it’s empty save for the shelves, and Rick doesn’t waste time before pressing Daryl into one of them and kissing him like they haven’t seen each other in _ years. _

“Fuck,” Daryl groans against the man’s lips when Rick draws away for a brief moment they both need to catch their breaths. He wraps his arms tightly around Rick’s waist and holds him close. His face sort of hurts, his wrists too, but he’d rather get beaten to a pulp than let the deputy leave him right now. 

“I’m gonna kill Walsh,” Rick whispers, lifting his hand to trace the bruise on Daryl’s jaw and then the one under his right eye. Even the delicate pressure is painful, but Daryl tries his harder not to wince. Judging from how Rick’s expression goes stormy, he doesn’t succeed.

“Think Walsh is our guy,” he mutters before the man can say anything about the injuries. “I mean, could be anyone, but… Like. The smell, I told ya, did I? Nutmeg an’ cinnamon, like pumpkin pie.”

“No, you didn’t mention it,” Rick says, frowning.

“Ah… ‘s ‘cause ya don’t believe me, with ‘em ghosts or nothin’,” Daryl remembers. “‘s just somethin’ Beth and Sophia both said. Dude who grabbed ‘em smelled like pumpkin pie.”

“That does sound like Shane Walsh alright,” Rick murmurs thoughtfully. “Explains why he was so adamant it was you. And also that she’s dead. I guess he would know…”

“I guess shit’s about to hit the fan now, ain’t it?” Daryl asks softly. “He’s gonna come after me. Get me in jail for it?”

“Well, I ain’t gonna let him,” Rick promises, and kisses him again. It’s too good, somehow, Daryl thinks, the feeling of the other man pressed so fully against him, Rick’s hands tangled in the hair at the back of his head, his lips insistent on Daryl’s own. He feels cared for, cherished almost, and… Well, it’s like a dream which can’t last. Nothing that good’s ever happened to a Dixon.

“Got any leads? Anything tangible we can use to get you off the hook?” Rick asks a moment later, still holding him, like he can’t get enough of him. Like he’s worried if he stops, Daryl might disappear.

Daryl certainly thinks Rick will vanish the moment he lets the man go, so he doesn’t even as he shakes his head. “Nothin’ ‘s far as evidence goes,” he says, somewhat frustrated. “Why’s the lil’ girl lyin’? Is Blake somehow in on all this shit? I mean, he’s gotta be, if he had the doctor forge a sick note an’ all. But how’s it all connect to Sophia’s disappearance? And Jim’s? Dunno what’s goin’ on here, man…”

Rick looks at him strangely. “Jim?” He prompts, and Daryl realizes he hasn’t shared all of his conclusions and possible clues he’s gathered just yet. So he does, as briefly as he can summarize his findings so far in the limited time they have before someone might start searching for the missing deputy. After all, it’s better if they aren’t found together like this. 

“A serial killer,” Rick mutters under his breath. “Hell, I certainly didn’t expect this when I transferred here from Delilah earlier this year,” he adds, shaking his head. “I’ll look into this, see if I can find anything interesting in the databases. I was actually talking to the IT guy just before now, asked him to forward some files my way. I’ll share what I can find.”

They agree to meet up later and eventually unwrap themselves from each other’s arms, though it’s with a reluctance that they do so. Rick plants one last peck on Daryl’s lips before smuggling him out of the room and straight towards the exit. He leaves Daryl on the sidewalk in front of the station, but before he goes, he says:

“After it’s all finished, I’m going to ask you out properly. If that’s something you’d like.”

And obviously Daryl nods so eagerly, he almost gives himself a whiplash. He doesn’t even mind it when Andrea ribs him about his disheveled clothes and puffy lips later in the car. Rick wants to ask him out. On a date. Like a real couple, not just, whatever they’ve been. Fuck buddies. Not like that. 

Even getting arrested again wouldn’t sour his mood right now.

*

Two weeks pass without further developments in the case Walsh is apparently trying to build against Daryl, but also, unfortunately, without any new clues. Rick has dropped by Daryl’s place twice, both times in the cover of night. The first time, Daryl didn’t even manage to get a word in edgewise before he was pressed up against the wall opposite the door with an armful of Rick Grimes kissing the hell out of him. Thankfully Daryl still had the presence of mind to steer them to the ghost-proof bedroom before any clothes were off, so none of the three present ghosts got an eyeful. 

_ Three. _

Because that’s a thing now. Merle’s been around since he died in Iraq, but he doesn’t normally bother Daryl that much. He’s basically the same as when he was alive, except more annoying because he has no off-button. Ghosts don’t sleep, drink themselves to a stupor or get coked out. Then, there’s Beth, who generally keeps to the kitchen and is perfectly content when Daryl leaves the radio on for her. She likes listening to the wildlife program late at night. And, for a good few days now, Sophia has joined the merry crew in Daryl’s house. She mostly looks out of windows and plays pretend, using her imagination in place of toys she obviously doesn’t have. 

None of them can sense the presence of others, which leads to headaches for Daryl sometimes when they all talk to him at once. 

At least they’re not a problem now, when Rick’s come to see him the second time. Beth’s back on the farm tonight, because she felt anxious without seeing her parents for so long. Sophia is gone, too, probably stalking her mother as she has been for the last three years. And Merle… Well. Who the fuck knows where Merle is when he’s not at the house. Daryl sure doesn’t, and neither does he care to. 

Rick doesn’t try to devour him on sight this time. He kisses Daryl, yes, but it’s not the same demanding, almost desperate sort of kiss from the last time. If anything, it’s tired, like he hasn’t had enough rest in forever.

“Got some news,” he says when Daryl shows him to the living room and offers him some leftovers from last night’s dinner. 

The thing is, he’s managed to find himself a part-time job in these two weeks. It’s not much and it’s for Carol Peletier, which Daryl supposes might be her way of being charitable towards him without actually giving him things. Apparently, after the third anniversary of Sophia’s disappearance, Carol decided she needed to start getting rid of Ed’s things around the house. But it’s a demanding chore, requires carrying a lot of heavy stuff; so she called Daryl and asked if he’d be willing to help out. 

He agreed immediately, even before she mentioned any pay. He was very surprised when, after the first day, almost five hours, of him lugging heavy boxes around, Carol offered him fifty bucks in five ten-dollar bills.

It was much more than the minimum wage he used to get from the factory, and anyway, he wasn’t helping her for money, so Daryl tried to protest. But Carol had none of it. 

“Got enough saved up,” she said dismissively, “and you deserve it for your hard work.”

So he was forced to accept it, and he went to the grocery store to finally get food. Beth helped with the shopping, telling him how to select produce so it’s really fresh, and she promised to teach him to actually make a decent vegetable stew. She delivered on that promise, too, she taught him the recipe for the stew and for a nicely filling potato casserole which didn’t turn out so difficult to make. 

Then, Carol insisted on paying him again, and each time Daryl came around to help clean up or fix something, a ten for every hour he spent doing shit for her; thanks to Carol’s kindness over these two weeks, he’s managed to actually save up for later. 

It still feels like charity, but Daryl can’t help but wonder if this might be what friendship is like.

The dinner he heats up for himself and Rick is a simple stir-fry, but it’s good, just the right amount of spicy. The deputy eats his share eagerly before he settles down on the couch next to Daryl and sighs in obvious contentment. 

“I’d stay like this if I could,” he says lazily, closing his eyes. “But like I said, I have some news.”

“Good or bad?” Daryl asks and lifts his hand to gently pet Rick’s head. It’s nice, to sit there with the man pressed against his side, stroking his hair and listening to him breathe.

“Both. Neither? I don’t know yet,” Rick replies distractedly. “I mean, things could be either way,” he explains after a moment when Daryl’s almost sure he must’ve fallen asleep.

“Yer not bein’ very forthcomin’ right now,” Daryl informs him playfully.

Rick chuckles, the rich sound of his laughter bubbling up from his chest. “Oh, well,” he says. “Stuff’s not goin’ bad for you. Got some footage from CCTV at the gas station outside Delilah, got you and your truck on it. It’s blurry, but should work. Walsh has pissed everyone off by screwing up your arrest, so nobody’s really giving him the time of the day. Also, I have the IT dude monitoring Walsh’s communication. I think it’s illegal,” he admits, lowering his voice to sound secretive.

Daryl laughs, he can’t help it. “‘course it’s illegal,” he says, “yer such a dork, Grimes.”

“As long as you like me anyway,” Rick shrugs like he’s not bothered. “So, that’s what’s been going on. Nothing on the _ finding Beth _ front, unfortunately. It’s been a month and we’re still no closer to a resolution.”

“‘s not on you, man,” Daryl assures him because he knows Rick’s feeling guilty about the whole thing. He blames himself for Beth’s death, like he thinks if only he found her sooner, she might still be alive now. 

Daryl doesn’t think so. Judging from the clothes her ghost wears, their state, she probably died very soon after she was taken. 

“It’s just such a weird case,” Rick mutters softly. “Did you know, there were almost a hundred confirmed disappearances in King County over the last century? A hundred, Daryl. That’s like, one-twentieth of this whole town. Wouldn’t you notice if one twentieth of the population disappeared? But since it’s stretched over a hundred years, nobody cares.”

“So’s like… one a year?” Daryl asks, frowning. Now this, this doesn’t sound right at all.

“Mm,” Rick confirms in a soft hum. “Well, sometimes two in the same year, sometimes none at all. Mostly in the fall months, but that’s understandable, with the floods and all…”

“I wonder,” Daryl says, then trails off. 

Sophia went missing three years ago. Beth, this year. Were there two others who disappeared and nobody noticed? Seems far-reaching, but… something about this case is strange, something about these almost regular disappearances. 

So he asks, “Any chance I could see some records from ‘em missin’ persons’ cases?”

Rick looks at him. “Yeah,” he decides. “I’ll bring them over next time I’m here. Let’s talk about something else now, okay? How’s working for Carol?”

Daryl laughs and tells him how he fell off a ladder earlier today and almost broke his neck, but found a stash of money Ed must’ve hidden in a plastic wrapper under one of the roof shingles. Carol had him keep half of the stash, no discussion. Since it was a hundred and fifty bucks, Daryl promptly handed it to her and took the car keys to Ed’s old truck in return.

He’s decided to use it for replacement parts to his own piece of shit old truck. 

They end up in the bedroom eventually, but they don’t have sex that night. They kiss and cuddle until they both fall asleep, and in the morning after Rick’s left, Daryl realizes he’s never slept so well before. 

*

On October twenty-ninth, Daryl is at Carol’s place again. They’ve been gradually clearing the place out, getting rid of all things Ed’s as well as random shit Carol decided she wouldn’t need again. Today, Daryl intends to deal away with the stuff at the basement, which is basically the final stage he needs to clear before he’s done. Carol won’t be accompanying him due to parent-teacher meetings at the school, but it’s fine. She’s left him the keys anyway; and Daryl wonders what in the hell prompted her to show this much trust in him when most of the rest of this town would as soon see him hanged for a crime he didn’t commit.

Well, maybe she’s just a good person.

Anyway, Daryl gets into his work clothes and heads to the basement; it’s small, about the size of a wine cellar or, like, a broom closet, but it’s got a lot of stuff inside to sort through. Daryl works his way through stacks of old Donald Duck comic books, some of which look to be in pristine condition; he packs them away, wondering if maybe they’ll be suitable for Rick’s son and daughter. He decides to ask Carol later if he can take them. He would’ve loved them as a kid, so maybe little Carl and Judith Grimes might appreciate the gift. Another stack of magazines turns out to contain inordinate amounts of soft porn, and Daryl doesn’t hesitate to throw them all away without examining them too closely. He also gets rid of a few cheap shirts which have seen better days, a drill with its power cable half-eaten by mice, and a pair of fishing waders he’s pretty sure aren’t Carol’s. He places most of the trash in a wooden crate he also finds in the basement, and he’s on the way to the garbage container before he remembers the apple delivery from a year ago - and how Carol said there was something about the crate the apples came in.

So he examines it, and well. It looks like a normal crate. Wooden and rough, exactly like the crates Daryl used to pick apples into back when he worked in the orchard. There’s even a company name on the bottom, _ Steinberg Orchards. _ Daryl’s not familiar with the name, but it doesn’t have to mean-

Wait a second.

“What was the name of that dude done owned the Leaky Mill?” He asks Beth, who’s been hovering around as usual. 

She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, then frowns in thought. “Wait, I may know. Berg-something? Damn, Maggie would know. She’s interested in the history of the region…”

“Steinberg,” Daryl mutters. Now that he thinks about it, he did see apple trees in that area, back when he went hunting there. Not many of them, a dozen maybe, but they looked less wild than they should have after so many years of nobody caring for them. Daryl’s seen abandoned orchards and those trees looked nothing like it. 

But what does it mean?

“I think I’m gonna go see visit that place again,” he tells Beth. 

“Didn’t you promise Rick to stay safe?” The girl asks. 

Daryl did, on that first night Rick came to see him. They talked about where Daryl should go look for any possible tracks of whoever took Beth, and Rick all but begged him not to go anywhere. 

“It’s not safe,” he said, tracing the bruises on Daryl’s face which had only just turned that violent purple color bruises get after the first few days. For a moment, Daryl bristled at the thought of Rick treating him like he’s helpless, but he gave in eventually. How could he not, with the man’s hands and lips all over his body, doing wonderful things to him?

He’s weak. 

“It ain’t dangerous, been there countless times before,” he says now and pretends he doesn’t see Beth roll her eyes, doesn’t hear her grumble something about _ big strong macho men. _ It’s not about some male pride. He wants to check out a lead which might just as well be nothing; and the thing is, he’s much better suited to this task than Rick who doesn’t know the area as well and wouldn’t know what to look for anyway. 

So Daryl goes. 

*

On second thought, he should’ve waited until tomorrow.

“Well, you’re not scared of the dark,” Beth informs him smugly as she trails behind him in along the muddy path. The dim light if the dusk makes the Leaky Mill look downright spooky and Daryl wonders if that wasn’t actually the entire reason the fan blades were stuck to the old ruined silo in the first place: to scare away the kids. Whether it was a prank or not, Daryl isn’t sure. He tries not to look in that direction because if it was a prank, he’d be ashamed to have to admit it sort of creeps him out.

He only has a small pocket flashlight which gives off a weak glow. He doesn’t know how good the batteries are, so he keeps it turned off for the time being. It’s still not completely dark out, and the night’s supposed to be cloudless so it’s possible he will be able to see enough in the moonlight. It was full moon a few nights ago and the moon is in the waning phase now, but still big enough. 

“I wonder where this path goes,” Beth says conversationally, filling the silence with her voice. Daryl is grateful. Maybe it’s the aura of mystery making this excursion seem more scary than his previous hunting trips, or maybe there’s really something strange in the air; the thing is, he’s got the impression that he’s being followed by something much more sinister than a ghost, but he can’t for the life of him spot this potential stalker anywhere. If the stalker exists, they’re silent and careful. Might as well be Daryl’s imagination. After all, nobody knows he’s here.

The thought makes a shiver run down his spine.

He concentrates on Beth and the path in front of him. “Far as I remember, ‘s a dead end,” he says thoughtfully. “Apple trees out back an’ a whole lotta nothin’ else. Got a big-ass buck there once. Fucker almost gored me, I miscalculated the shot. Ain’t wanted to eat him, after that, but I figure, food’s food.”

Beth shakes her head. “Good thing it didn’t kill you,” she says, and she sounds sincerely grateful. “So, why are we going to look at some trees again?”

“Dunno,” Daryl admits. “Got a feelin’ they’s important somehow. Might just be me, but… Wait. What’s that?” 

There’s something on the path, brighter than the dirt around it. Daryl takes out the flashlight, turns it on and directs the light at the item on the ground. It’s a handkerchief. Stained with mud, must’ve been on in the ground for at least a few days now, but it’s still possible to tell the original color. The pale blue of the fabric looks grayish in the yellow light of the torch, and Daryl can make out an embroidery in one corner. Initials. BG.

“Beth,” he whispers urgently. “Beth, this yers?”

The girl only takes one look at the handkerchief before she nods in affirmation. “Definitely. I’ve sewn my initials into all of my kerchiefs,” she says with conviction. “Daryl, do you think we’re close? Do you think I died somewhere here?”

“Might be,” Daryl replies, and he pockets the handkerchief. He continues down along the path, paying careful attention now in hopes of spotting any tracks, anything that might point him in the right direction. He almost misses the moment he comes upon the apple trees, so focused he is on looking for clues on the ground. It’s Beth who points out another strange thing to him.

“That one looks picked clean,” she says, motioning towards one of the trees. 

Indeed, while there are big, heavy apples hanging on branches of the majority of the trees, and there are apples on the ground around them, one tree is suspiciously devoid of fruit. Not even a single apple is left on it, as far as Daryl can tell, like somebody diligently picked every last one before they fell. There don’t seem to be any footprints around the tree, but Daryl can see the unmistakable tracks left by a rake. Somebody picked the apples and then raked the immediate vicinity of the tree to cover their prints. 

“This is so spooky,” Beth says breathlessly. “Daryl- can we go back? It’s stupid, but I’m scared.”

Daryl doesn’t confess that he’s a bit freaked out as well. He regrets not having taken his crossbow along. He tells himself, it’s not the first time he’s running around these parts at night, but this line of reasoning doesn’t work when he’s got fucking goosebumps all over his skin from all the weird vibes the place is giving off. 

“Just a bit further,” he says, both to himself and Beth. “If there’s nothin’ there, I’m goin’ back.”

He marches on, and eventually the pathway ends, just like he remembered. But the thing is, Daryl can tell if somebody went through tall grass recently, and he can see the signs pointing towards it in the grass ahead. There’s a field stretching for about a quarter mile between where he is and the woods, and Daryl knows very well that he shouldn’t, that he really should turn back and maybe return tomorrow - in the daylight - but he’s never been particularly reasonable. Not when that feeling in his gut is so strong. 

_ Danger, _ it seems to say, but also, even more insistently, _ you’re so close, Dixon. _

So he forces himself to swallow down the irrational fear - there are no damn bears here, and nobody’s following him, and even if someone is, it’s not like Daryl’s a wilting daisy who can’t overpower a potential assailant. He tells himself it’s fine as he follows the trail towards the woods, through the grass. 

It’s when the grass abruptly turns into a dirt path among the trees that he finds solid proof of someone having been here not too long ago.

There’s a boot print on the ground. It looks like somebody who was walking here didn’t notice a deeper spot of mud and stepped in heavily. Or maybe they didn’t care because they were carrying something. Some_ one. _ Daryl wishes he had a smartphone because the boot print looks like forensic evidence, the kind all those detective dudes in movies find useful. If he only had a photo, maybe Rick could use it somehow. Find the owner of the boot from the print it leaves… Nah, impossible. Daryl’s pretty sure it’s a standard print. Doesn’t look special. Must be hundreds of the same even in North Hanging. There aren’t many shops selling male shoes in the small town. 

Might be, it wasn’t even anyone suspicious, the one who left the print. Might be a heavy-set man headed to a fishing spot through here. It would be one hell of a coincidence, what with Beth’s lost handkerchief, but it’s entirely possible. Daryl should head back. Leave the clue-searching to Rick. He promised to stay safe, after all.

“I don’t like it here,” Beth mutters softly. She touches Daryl’s wrist and, without thinking, Daryl takes her hand in his, offering comfort and drawing his own from the contact. He’s actually glad for once that her touch is so cold. It anchors him, makes him think in the here and now. 

And the _ here and now _is, there’s a horrible putrid smell in the air the further into the forest he goes. It’s not unfamiliar, this smell. Once, when he went hunting in Sommer County, he found an old pit trap in a clearing. Some damn poacher must’ve left it there. Down at the bottom, there was a half-rotten carcass of a doe, covered in maggots. It must’ve been there for a few weeks before Daryl found it.

The smell was the same.

He comes upon a clearing, like that time; but what he finds there is not a pit trap, but a crooked wooden shack which looks like it might cave in at any moment. It’s weird, because he could swear he knows these woods, but he’s never seen this shack before. He comes closer, nauseated by the smell but braving through it, and he looks inside through an uncovered window. It’s empty, so Daryl walks around to find the door. He finds it open, and he enters hesitantly, ignoring Beth’s whimper of fear. 

There’s literally nothing inside the shack. Not a piece of furniture, no pictures, no random garbage brought in by wild animals. Nothing at all to suggest any sort of presence inside. But the smell of decay is stronger here, and Daryl thinks he knows what he will find even before he notices the trap door in the floor. 

“Beth,” he whispers hoarsely. He coughs and shakes his head. “Wait outside,” he orders briskly. “Don’t go after me. I’m gonna see down there an’ then come out an’ get ya, okay?”

The girl agrees reluctantly, lets go of Daryl’s hand with one final squeeze. Daryl gives her a reassuring nod and waits until she’s outside. Then he sets to work opening the trapdoor. It’s heavy as fuck, and the handle is slippery from humidity, but eventually, he manages to lift it a few inches - and drops it almost immediately. The rotten stench from underneath is overwhelming and Daryl struggles not to gag. He searches through his pockets, finds a rag he used for wiping sweat off his face when he was lugging boxes at Carol’s earlier, and he ties it around his face, hoping it will block the fetor at least some. Then he goes to work lifting the trapdoor again.

It takes a while, but he manages it in the end. The effort reveals a few wooden steps, and Daryl covers his nose and mouth with a hand on top of the rag as he lights his way down with the flighlight in the other. He descends the steps to the low basement, but he doesn’t get all the way to the bottom, because he doesn’t have to.

What he was searching for is right at his feet. Sprawled on the floor, lying on her back, with a blindfold over her eyes, there’s the decaying body of the late Elizabeth Mary Greene. There’s dried blood on the bottom-most stair and with a sick feeling, Daryl realizes what must’ve happened:

She hit her head. She was down here in the basement, locked up in the dark, she regained consciousness, tried to find her way out, tripped, fell… hit her head on the stair. Died from that. An accident. A fucking accident.

“Goddamnit, Beth,” he mutters under his breath.

That’s when Beth screams from outside, “Daryl, watch out!”

And at the same time, a new voice from right behind Daryl says, “Yes, I rather fucking thought so too.” 

It’s vaguely familiar, much too cheerful for the circumstances, makes something churn inside of Daryl. _It's not Walsh,_ his mind supplies in a panic, and he whirls around, but the other guy is quicker; he knocks the flashlight out of Daryl’s hand, grabs him by the hair and pushes him against the closest wall, and Daryl groans painfully as his head is knocked forcefully against the wood. Then again. And once more. He tries to fight, but the assailant is stronger, and the world starts spinning, and it’s so damn dark.

“Come ooon, Dixon, get the fuck out cold already,” the man demands, and he punches Daryl in the face like he hopes it’ll help knock him out. 

“Fuck you,” Daryl replies, or at think he wants to, because what actually comes out of his mouth is an incoherent moan. 

“I mean, it’s awful nice to come here on your own, means we won’t be having to fetch you when the time comes,” the assailant adds, then kicks out Daryl’s legs and waits for him to collapse into a heap on the floor. Then he kicks again, aiming at Daryl’s ribs, and it knocks the breath out of him. “You don’t know how lucky it felt when we learned about your birthday. That’s so damn convenient! But I guess there’s something magical about this time, isn’t there, with all those people born on Halloween. Such a happy coincidence,” the man murmurs. 

Daryl’s fighting a losing battle, he knows; there’s darkness in the corners of his eyes and he can’t move, everything hurts, his head _ fucking hurts. _He groans out something that might be a name, might be a curse, he doesn’t know, and then there’s one more kick, and he tries to crawl, but it’s so dark, it’s so dark, it’s so-

It’s so dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, Beth. 
> 
> Also, did I just update from one cliffhanger to another? Why, yes I did. You're welcome. 
> 
> (By the way, I don't know much about the regulations surrounding arrests on suspicion of murder and all that. I googled some of it and then decided it's too complicated for my poor overworked brain, so I took what I read, then compiled it with some stuff I've seen in books/shows, and made it into something vaguely coherent. Please, it's a fanfic, hopefully nobody will use it as reference about law in the United States. I make it all up as I go!)


	6. Ghostlights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence against a minor in this chapter. Nothing very graphic.

When Daryl was fifteen years old, his daddy caught him looking at gay porn. 

It was in summer, when school was out, and Will Dixon was on another bender; he got his hands on some cash, fuck knew where from, and so it was more likely to find him in the local bar than at home. Not that it was any different than normal, only this time, he had the means to actually pay for his booze. So Daryl hadn’t seen him in a good three days. 

That’s why he became bold - and stupid, turned out. 

He bought the mag with some of the money he managed to save up from his part-time job selling peaches out of a stall for one of the neighboring farms. He’d had to work in his spare time since the previous year when Merle moved out and their daddy demanded Daryl either got lost too, or started paying rent. The former wasn’t really an option, so he started doing odd jobs here and there to be able to pay his father’s ridiculously high rent. 

Now, Daryl wasn’t a fool. He knew he couldn’t just buy a gay porn magazine in North Hanging without his father somehow finding out he did it, so he created a whole plan around it. On his day off from the fruit stall, he took a bus to Delilah and then another from there to Atlanta. But he didn’t go all the way to Atlanta; he got off halfway along the way at a stop in the middle of nowhere. The only thing within a few miles radius was a lone gas station. That’s where Daryl was headed: the tiny station with a magazine stand which proudly presented a variety of naughty mags on display. Including those that Daryl was interested in. 

Of course, Internet already existed back then and arguably, Daryl didn’t really have to buy a magazine to have access to porn. There even was a computer in the Dixon household, and even though it was old and slow, it had the capability to be connected to the network. But the computer was in plain sight in the kitchen. Not worth the risk.

So he bought that magazine, blushing the whole time. He stuck it in the waistband of his jeans, obscuring it under his loose t-shirt, and walked towards the nearest bus stop to get back home. He made a hiding place for the magazine prior to the excursion, under a loose floorboard, completely indistinguishable from others in his bedroom, and he placed it there immediately when he returned. It took three more days before he gathered enough courage to take it out. Three days in which Will Dixon wasn’t home and Daryl waited in nervous anticipation, equally terrified and excited at the prospect of possibly looking at his new treasure.

It wasn’t even that good, the magazine. Once he finally got it in his hands, his expectations were soaring because of the build-up and, honestly, Daryl’s first reaction to the photos of the posing models in various states of undress was disappointment. They were all nice to look at, he supposed. Proportional, muscular bodies, somewhat handsome faces, big cocks. Everything looked glossy and glamorous in the pictures, and fake. 

Back when Daryl was only discovering his sexuality, for some time, he was convinced he was the only boy interested in other boys instead of girls, and for the longest time, it made him feel incredibly lonely; not only was he the only one to see dead people, but also this. He thought he was broken. The two things, the ghosts and the  _ liking boys, _ they seemed connected, like everything which seemed wrong with the world was actually wrong with Daryl Dixon. It was a relief to learn there were more people preferring their own sex. Even though he learned about it first from derisive sneers by bullies at school, it was still the best thing that could’ve happened to him: he was not alone.

But staring at the primped-up models in the gay magazine, Daryl had the strangest feeling that they were not  _ real. _ And even though he logically knew magazines like that one had to exist for  _ someone, _ at that moment, he thought the whole gay thing wasn’t something that actually happened to real people. He felt all alone, again, because  _ he  _ was nothing like the men on the glossy pages, all shiny skin, shapely legs and pretty lips. These men, they were about as real to him as dragons or, whatever, fucking  _ Smurfs. _

And Daryl wasn’t attracted to them. Didn’t even like them one bit. Looking at them didn’t make him feel the way the occasional glimpses at Walsh at the locker room after PE made him feel; thinking about any of the models didn’t get a reaction out of him even  _ close  _ to how turned on he’d get whenever he saw Martinez making out with his girl, or Negan tackling someone on the pitch, or- never mind. Thing was, the men in the magazine weren’t anything Daryl hoped they would be, and it felt damn near heartbreaking.

_ Seems like I’m a freak after all, _ he thought to himself, flipping through the pages dejectedly, neither disgusted nor interested. A waste of time, a waste of money, a waste of his fucking good mood; nothing new in the world of Daryl Dixon. He shouldn’t have expected any better. 

Lost in his gloomy thoughts, he didn’t notice somehow that the house stopped being completely silent. He only realized when the doorknob moved and the door to his bedroom sprang wide open that his daddy came home, and by then it was too late. He still valiantly attempted to hide the offending magazine under the pillow, but Will Dixon was nothing if not observant when he thought it gave him ammunition to use against his sons.

“Show me whatchu got there, boy,” he demanded in a drunken slur that didn’t sound any less dangerous for the state it pointed at. Daryl knew the mood his daddy was in: not too drunk to talk, too drunk to care if potential injuries on his victim would be visible. 

“‘s that a girlie mag I see? Ya stealed it from my stash, ya lil’ thief?” 

“Ain’t… ain’t a girlie mag,” Daryl protested, and winced when his father’s sweaty hand swatted his own hands away as he desperately tried to hide the cover. 

The beginnings of a lecherous smirk on Will Dixon’s face melted as soon as his mind processed the image on the cover was not that of a scantily clad girl. Daryl didn’t even have the time to become terrified; fists fell upon him like some Goddamn rendition of the Apocalypse, hitting everywhere, uncoordinated but no less cruel in their force. He tried to come up with an excuse, but his mind drew a blank as one of the punches drove Daryl into the wall behind the bed so hard, his skull left an indent in the plaster. 

It was the worst beating Daryl had ever taken from Will Dixon. It went on and on until every bone in Daryl’s body felt broken, every part of his soul felt strained, and he didn’t even have the strength to curl into a defensive position anymore. He passed out eventually and was apparently out for the whole night, sprawled on the floor in his bedroom, bleeding and bruised. He didn’t remember half of the things his daddy called him. He didn’t remember what happened to the magazine.

He still remembers the pain when the bone at the front of his skull cracked, though, and is rudely reminded of it as he wakes up all alone in a dark place he doesn’t recognize.

The first thing he registers is that he’s not alone, because he hears a soft sniffle and a cool hand touches his own. It’s so gentle, Daryl’s pretty sure he’s hallucinating it, but then again, maybe not. He cracks an eye open - the left one, the right side of his face hurts too fucking much to do anything at all with it; and he’s met with the sight of Beth Greene kneeling by his side. She’s weeping. She looks like an angel and Daryl wants to say something, beg her not to cry over him. He doesn’t deserve the tears of angels. He’s just a gay fucking redneck nobody would miss if he were to off himself in the woods, after all. 

“I thought you were dead,” the girl whispers softly and squeezes Daryl’s fingers with her own. It’s a gesture of comfort, as much for Daryl’s sake as for her own, and he concentrates hard on returning it. 

“He carried you like a sack of potatoes, I thought… I thought he killed you and was coming out here to bury the body,” Beth says and her voice breaks. “I thought I’d never see you again!...”

“‘m fine,” Daryl mutters, aiming for reassurance even though they both know he’s anything  _ but  _ fine. His head is throbbing, his damn brain is pulsating with pain and he feels vaguely like he’s going to throw up, or like he already has. 

The events slowly return to him, finding Beth’s body in that basement, the assault. Groaning, Daryl tries to sit up, but can’t do much more than roll onto his back before the world starts spinning too much to risk it. He exhales slowly, blinks both eyelids and curses inwardly when the pull of skin aggravates the bruises around the eye. He’s pretty sure his eye socket is cracked, just like it was fifteen years ago after his daddy finished with him. His nose doesn’t feel broken, though, small mercies, and his limbs and ribs seem fine, so the abuse he took this time must’ve been contained to just his head. 

Amazing. He’s probably even uglier than before, what with all the bruises and swelling. He’ll be lucky if Rick looks at him twice.

“We need to get you out of here,” Beth says urgently. “I don’t know how long you were out, I can’t… I can’t tell the passage of time too well, anymore,” she adds, sounding frustrated. “It’s light out, but I’m… not sure what day it is. I got distracted, I sat here with you and-”

“Beth, ‘s fine, ‘s all fine,” Daryl mumbles in an attempt to calm her, because he thinks she might be close to giving herself a panic attack. Do ghosts suffer from panic attacks? He’s got no idea. He’ll have to ask Jesus. Fuck. Will Jesus still want his naked pics now that Daryl’s face is all messed up? Daryl frowns. Well, the dude didn’t really want the photos for Daryl’s  _ face,  _ so it should still be alright. 

“It’s not fine,” Beth protests. “And you’re not fine,” she adds. She stands up and looks around the dark room they’re in like she’s trying to find a way out.

“What the hell’s this place?” Daryl asks. He can’t make anything out in the darkness, but he’s reasonably certain he’s not in that shack in the woods. There’s no stench of decaying bodies in here, not even a trace lingers in the air; instead, he can smell cinnamon, nutmeg and something like ginger. The spices used to make pumpkin pie. The same scent he smelled earlier on Walsh. 

“The Leaky Mill,” Beth says softly. “I didn’t even know there was a way to enter it, but he had a ladder and he used a rope to ease you down here. There’s a platform up near the top.”

Daryl nods. “So they want me alive,” he observes. “Fuck, my head’s killin’ me. That fucker’s got one helluva punch.”

And doesn’t he know it. 

After all, it’s not the first time he got his ass handed to him by Negan. The dude’s always been an insufferable, ill-tempered bastard and he wasn’t particularly choosy when it came to the people he picked on. Anything was reason enough to get a beating from Negan and his posse of ass-lickers. In Daryl’s case, it was usually because he  _ looked mean.  _ As if Negan had any room for talking.

So, Negan’s the one who took Beth. And Sophia? The description sort of fits, he’s got to admit: Negan tends to have a few days worth of stubble all the time, and his hair has a curl to it when he lets it grow out. So yeah, he can see it. Strange that Sophia didn’t recognize the PE teacher, but then again, she likely didn’t have classes with Negan. Usually he takes boy teams, from what Daryl’s heard, because he likes to scream at them and call them names. He apparently doesn’t like to spew his offensive bullshit at girls. What a fucking chivalrous prick.

Daryl was so sure it was Walsh. He still thinks the deputy must’ve had something to do with this shit, he was so damn eager to get Daryl in custody… and, fuck. Didn’t Negan say something about Daryl’s birthday? That’s not some publicly available information. Somebody had to have told him, and it could’ve only been somebody who heard Rick say it during the interrogation thing. It certainly wasn’t Andrea who spread the information around, Sheriff Jones dislikes Negan as much as Daryl himself does, and somehow, Daryl doubts Rick would’ve been involved with the death of someone he considers family even if he was the kind of man to willingly kidnap anyone. Walsh… seems like a viable suspect. Not only because Daryl dislikes him so much.

Then there are also Dr. Mamet and the mayor. The mayor’s daughter, too? Or was she just an innocent girl whose overactive imagination was skillfully manipulated by the adults scheming around her?

Fuck. His head really fucking hurts.

“So, seems I ain’t gettin’ out,” Daryl notes after a moment. His eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, but he’s still not really able to see anything besides the outlines of his own limbs. There are a few air vents in the walls, there must be, but they’re probably covered because Daryl can’t locate them in the black mass in front of him in every direction. The silo must be painted black, or another dark color, on the inside. That would explain the unnatural darkness of the place. 

He thinks about Beth, all alone and scared in a similarly dark basement. How brave she was, trying to find a way out even in what seemed like such a hopeless situation. That she died like that… fuck, Daryl hates it. He hates it so much. 

“There must be a way out,” Beth says, a note of desperation in her voice. 

Daryl shakes his head. “Silos of this type ain’t built with staircases or shit, ‘s no gettin’ out without a ladder,” he explains. He’s worked on enough farms during harvest times to know. “Don’cha worry, Bethie. I ain’t givin’ up or anythin’. He’s gonna come back eventually. He needs me for somethin’. He ain’t wanted me dead.”

“So, what, you’re just going to wait here? Until he realizes he changed his mind and comes back to finish the job?” Beth asks bitterly. “It’s all my fault. You’re going to die because of me,” she says, horrified realization dawning on her face.

“Beth, no,” Daryl mutters. “‘s gonna be alright. Jus’ wait an’ see.”

He’s not going to die like this. 

*

There are things about North Hanging that Rick Grimes really likes: the vicinity of the woods, for one, and the bakery near the station, and even the local market every second Saturday of each month. There are more yet that he doesn’t really like, unfortunately. Starting from the stereotypical small town mentality of its inhabitants; he’s not exactly a city man, he’s lived most of his life in Delilah which is maybe twice the size of North Hanging, but he can’t stand the close-minded, everyday sort of hatred the people here harbor towards, well, everyone else. Their neighbors who have better cars or nicer gardens, the young men who laugh too loudly, the children who climb trees like monkeys, the girls whose skirts are too short, the old people who do nothing but gossip and pray… the list goes on and on. Everyone he’d ask, everyone in this entire Goddamn town hates somebody. But besides their casual, petty dislikes, they all seem to be united on one front:

They all seem to hate Daryl Dixon.

Which, Rick really doesn’t get. Some time before he actually met the man, he heard the suspicious murmurs about his involvement in Beth’s disappearance, so he made some inquiries, did some digging. Nothing he found seemed to back up those claims. Rather, the picture the facts painted of Daryl Dixon was very normal. Almost boring. A man with background of childhood abuse, taking on all kinds of jobs since he was fourteen years old, arrested twice for petty theft and once for possession. All three arrests were made by Shane Walsh, but that wasn’t really strange. The weird thing was, even though any evidence against him was entirely circumstantial, Dixon still spent almost two months total in the county prison. 

There weren’t any photos in the files Rick found, so he didn’t really know that the gorgeous man he saw hotwiring an old truck in the parking lot was the same man he had been researching. It didn’t made one iota of a difference once he did know, however; he was already in too deep, just from looking at the stormy blue eyes staring back at him in an unspoken challenge.

Now, Rick knows he falls for people too easily. It was that way with Lori, back when they were kids. It was the same with Jessie Anderson, about a year after Lori passed away, but of course nothing came out of that. Then with Michonne Hawthorne in Atlanta: he fell way too deep way too soon, and their relationship worked quite well for the first month before it turned out they were much better friends than lovers. 

But it’s not the same with Daryl. 

The thing is, as he was offering the man a ride on that first meeting, Rick was already two-thirds in love with him, even though he didn’t know much about him besides how damn pretty he was, and that the town had a low opinion on him. The night he spent with Daryl - with a stranger! He, Rick Grimes, who never had a one-night-stand in his life, went home with a complete stranger and had some absolutely mind-blowing, definitely life-changing sex with him! Unbelievable. But that’s what happened, and Rick doesn’t regret a moment out of it. 

He’s also pretty convinced he wants to spend the rest of his life with Daryl Dixon, even with all this weird talking-to-ghosts business. If Daryl is crazy, it’s fine, that’s not a deal-breaker. Rick had a long period when he suffered a mental breakdown, unable to deal with the sudden loss of his wife, and he kept seeing her bloodied form everywhere, too. It’s actually why he moved to North Hanging: his therapist suggested a change of environment. It hasn’t been ideal so far, but at least Rick hasn’t seen Lori since, well. Probably since before Beth disappeared. So he doesn’t think it’s a problem if Daryl’s slightly off in the head. And if he’s not… well. Rick doesn’t really want to consider it, because then he would have to accept that little Beth is dead. And he doesn’t. He’s going to hang on to the last slivers of hope for as long as he has them. He owes it to Hershel. 

Speaking of Daryl, though… Rick’s been thinking about him all the time, like a lovesick teenager. Actually, he’s been wondering what to do for the man’s birthday. It’s tomorrow and yet, Rick still hasn’t come up with a suitable gift. The problem with that is, he doesn’t really know Daryl that well just yet. Oh, he knows what the man is like in bed - utterly wonderful, that is - but not so much how he spends his spare time, what he’s interested in, or even what kind of music he enjoys most. His first instinct was to buy matching rings for the two of them; he even went so far as to actually go to a jeweler’s in Delilah before he realized this is far too soon for this level of commitment. They haven’t even went out together yet. Having glorious sex at Daryl’s place a couple of times doesn’t count as proper dating, and anyway, Rick’s not sure if Daryl even  _ wants  _ anything more serious than a friends with benefits sort of relationship. As with every single of his instant deep dives into the whole being in love business, Rick went from zero to sixty before he could even think about it too long, and he’s basically ready to introduce Daryl to his kids and then ask for his hand in marriage, preferably in rapid succession. 

He didn’t buy the rings, but he asked the shop to hold them for him. It required a downpayment of over two hundred bucks, which he didn’t even try to negotiate. He just paid it. Because apparently, he’s hopeless.

Anyway, this leaves him back where he started when it comes to his birthday gift problem, and he hates that he’s got no ideas whatsoever. It would be easier if he at least knew of Daryl’s friends, if the man even has any, but so far, the only person he’s seen Daryl have a positive interaction with was that blond lawyer from Atlanta - and he can’t exactly call her, now can he? Even if he could technically look up her number from the case files, actually calling her would be all sorts of creepy and stalkerish. He thinks-

“Excuse me. Deputy Grimes, may I take a moment of your time?” A woman’s voice calls after him. Rick looks up from his desk where he’s been daydreaming for the last hour or so instead of finishing his stack of paperwork, and he finds Carol Peletier looking down on him, worry evident in her tired eyes. 

He doesn’t know the English teacher much beyond superficial pleasantries, but he remembers Daryl talking about her some. Mostly about her daughter, though, who if Daryl’s theories are correct, might’ve been taken by the same person who has Beth. Possibly by Shane Walsh, but… that’s pushing it, isn’t it? Walsh might be a hot-head, but he’s a good cop. He loves this damn little town and he’d do anything for it to prosper. He’s just as shaken up about Beth’s disappearance as anyone. 

Or he’s a really good actor. Rick doesn’t know him enough to be able to tell which is true. 

“How can I help you, Mrs. Peletier?” He asks the woman in front of his desk. 

She bites down on her lip, a sign of nervousness, and casts an uncertain look around as if she’s making sure nobody’s listening. Then, in a very soft voice, she says, “Our mutual friend is missing. Daryl Dixon. I’m afraid something bad might’ve happened to him…”

That gets Rick’s attention alright. “What do you mean he’s missing?”

“He was supposed to come up to my place to finish cleaning up the basement today,” Carol explains. “He’s been doing these odd jobs for me from time to time. Helping tide him over before he can find a proper job. It’s not easy on him, living in this town,” she sighs wistfully. “He was around yesterday, he did some basement cleaning, but he left before I came home… He didn’t leave a note or anything. I have no idea where he went. I checked, but he’s not at home.”

“Okay,” Rick says softly. “Okay, that’s… very good of you to come here, Mrs. Peletier. I’ll do everything I can to find him. Please concentrate, now: do you know of any place Daryl might’ve gone to? Anywhere at all?”

The woman takes a moment to consider the question before she shakes her head. “I thought he could’ve gone hunting, but I saw his crossbow when I went to check if he was home. He’d never go out to the woods without that thing. So he must have gone somewhere else. He’s been looking better lately, happier somehow, like he was maybe seeing somebody… do you reckon he’s with his new lover?”

“No,” Rick replies quickly. Too quickly, perhaps, but he’s not in the mood to explain himself. “He doesn’t have a cell phone, does he? Damn it.”

“Will you try to find him?” Mrs. Peletier inquires, and it’s so very telling that she even has to ask. Rick’s never hated the town of North Hanging more than right now. 

“I will,” he promises, and gets to work.

*

Finding Daryl is easier said than done.

The problem is, nobody wants to take him seriously when Rick tries to open a missing persons case. If Sheriff Jones was in, it would’ve been easier, but as luck would have it, he’s on annual holiday with his wife and son. He wanted to postpone it until at least after Beth was found, but Rick was actually the one to convince him to go and enjoy his hard-earned break. He sure regrets being a nice guy, now that he’s almost literally bumping into a wall of doubt from his fellow deputies.

“Give it up, Grimes,” Basset says, rolling his eyes. “Dude’s probably in sleeping off a bender in a ditch somewhere. Ain’t worth forming a search party. He’s gonna turn up in a few days with a giant hangover.”

“He doesn’t drink,” Rick protests, even as he remembers the dozens upon dozens of beer bottles he saw the first time he spent the night at Daryl’s place. To be fair, they weren’t there the next time he looked, or the time after that. 

“Yea, sure, a Dixon that don’t drink,” Walsh scoffs. “That would be the day. But sure, let’s entertain that for a sec, let’s agree the dude’s not off drinking all the booze he can get his grubby hands on just like his daddy - which, by the way, how would  _ you _ know? You even met Dixon outside of the interrogation room? Or did  _ Mrs. Peletier _ say so?”

“She did,” Rick replies, narrowing his eyes.

Basset and Walsh share a knowing look and Walsh pats Rick on the back, laughing under his breath. “You really shouldn’t pay that much attention to what that woman says. Man… she’s been pining for that ugly son of a bitch since high school. Everyone knows that. She got this, what’s it called, romanticized image of him in her head and everything. Believe me, Carol Peletier wouldn’t tell you about Dixon’s drinking even if you found the dude passed out in front of the station, stinking like a Goddamn distillery.”

Rick doesn’t know what to say, mainly because he’s worried if he says anything, it’s going to be very offensive. So he waits for Walsh to continue his previous train of thought which the man soon remembers about.

“Yeah, also. Let’s just assume Dixon really isn’t crocked way outta his head on vile moonshine somewhere in the woods. It’s possible. Not probable, but, okay, possible,” he says. “The alternative is that he bolted, innit? He knew we’d eventually find the girl, and that there’s no way we wouldn’t know it’s him who did her in, so he ran away. He’s probably halfway to Mexico right now. So maybe you’re right. Maybe we should be looking for him.”

If Rick thought he wouldn’t be able to dislike Shane Walsh more than he already did, he certainly doesn’t think so anymore. The idea that if he didn’t know Daryl at all, he might’ve believed Walsh’s accusations makes him sick. That he could’ve joined the bandwagon of baseless hate against that troubled but wonderful man, that he might’ve been another face in the crowd lynching Daryl Dixon for something he didn’t do. 

And he hates how helpless he is in the face of Walsh’s accusations. He could punch Walsh, but besides making him feel better, it would accomplish nothing. If something happened to Daryl - if  _ Walsh  _ did something to Daryl - then alienating the man would get Rick nowhere close to knowing about it. No; he might absolutely despise it, despise the man himself, but Rick realizes his best chance of finding Daryl is to gain Walsh’s trust.

“You may be right,” he acquiesces after a moment, pretending like he had to think the argument over. “I guess either option’s plausible, aren’t they? Didn’t seem very trustworthy to me, that guy. I had a strange feeling about him. Like he was hiding something.”

The words taste bitter in his mouth, but Rick’s got no choice. He can immediately see the approval in Walsh’s face as the man pats him on the back again, all friendly like he isn’t somehow responsible for the disappearance of the man Rick loves. 

“You’re a good guy, Grimes. I knew that from the start,” Walsh informs him, grinning. “The kind of guy this town really needs. I got an idea,” he adds mischievously. “You meet me at the Flagon Wagon tonight at seven. Just gonna be me, maybe a couple of friends. You can start making yourself a real part of this community. You interested?”

“Sure,” Rick replies, faking enthusiasm. He smiles his friendliest grin. “Should I bring something?”

“Yeah,” Walsh says, grinning right back. “Bring an apple. It’s a sort of a joke between my bros and me, y’know. A sign of like-minded people.”

Rick’s never had so much trouble faking laughter before. He tells himself it’s for Daryl’s sake; he needs to get close to Walsh and his group of friends. It’s the best he can think of right now, more reasonable than running out to the woods to search for Daryl himself. It wouldn’t be effective, he can’t track for shit and he doesn’t know the area well enough. He’d just succeed in getting himself lost. Damn, it’s so frustrating; he sort of wants to throw punches at Walsh, hurt him until the other deputy reveals what he did to Daryl. The impulse to deal damage frightens him because he knows he would do it, were he convinced he’d succeed. 

He doesn’t. He takes out his frustrations on a half-written report which he rips into tiny shreds over the course of the next hour.

*

Before Rick leaves the station for lunch break which he doesn’t intend to spend eating lunch, his mind reeling with dark scenarios in which he never sees Daryl again, he’s approached by Paul from IT support. The young man looks suspicious as he asks, “That display with Walsh… it was for show, right? You don’t really think Dixon did anything wrong?...”

Rick frowns. He’s got no reason whatsoever to trust this kid, other than that he seemed to be genuinely worried about Daryl back when Daryl was arrested. He certainly seems to be worried now as well, judging by the expression he’s wearing. So Rick decides to go with his gut feeling, and his gut’s saying that Paul from IT might be the furthest thing from an accomplice Walsh could have. So he nods solemnly, and watches as tension leaves the young man’s features, replaced by relief, then by resolve as Paul from IT looks him in the eye and announces: 

“I found something I need you to see.”


	7. All My Friends Are Ghosts

Some people take to modern technology like fish to water. They have the ability to quickly discern all the useful functions of a computer and utilize them fully to make improvements to their work methodology. Unfortunately, Rick Grimes is not one of those people. He has a smartphone, but only knows how to make calls, send texts and take photos with it. He owns a laptop, too, which he hasn’t unpacked yet since he moved to North Hanging. He’s the type of man to curl up on the sofa with a book while his children play with dolls, car models or Duplo blocks on the carpeted floor. He doesn’t need the Internet and he hasn’t done anything to get cable TV set up in the new house. 

Whatever it is that Paul does on the triple screen at his workstation in the small IT room, Rick doesn’t really follow; he can’t help the impression, however, that it’s not entirely legal. He’s pretty sure he saw some logos of intelligence agencies on the screens, agencies which probably wouldn’t appreciate sites with their logos being seen by a small-town deputy. But he doesn’t comment, and neither does Paul.

“Just give me a sec,” the IT guy says and types something rapidly into what looks to Rick like a text chat window. 

“Can this help locate Daryl?” Rick asks. His knowledge regarding what computers can and cannot do is based on pop culture. He’s sure they can’t be all  _ that _ useful.

“No,” Paul admits, “and yes. It won’t find him, directly, but I’ve done what you asked earlier and got some more information about the people missing in King County in the last three decades. Basically, if it made it into the system, I have it.”

Rick nods. “So we can search for connections between the missing persons. That’s good, that’s really good,” he smiles tightly. “Which printer are you hooked up to? We don’t want Walsh to find out what we’re doing.”

Paul looks at him strangely. “I’m not printing all this,” he says. “It’s not eco-friendly, man. Let me just… do… this,” he types something again, presses  _ Enter  _ at each pause, and grins.

The screen blinks and then displays what looks like a catalogue of portraits. There are twenty-something photos there, depicting people of various ages, genders and ancestries. One of them, Rick notes, is Beth.

“Of all those missing persons reports, these guys all have something in common,” Paul announces. He doesn’t follow up, like he’s waiting for Rick to guess what it is.

Rick frowns, thinks back to Daryl’s notes, anything he might’ve said before. Nothing really stands out, but then he remembers - Daryl’s birthday on Halloween. Beth’s was, too. Is this it? The connection?

“Yeah, you got it. Good job, deputy,” Paul compliments him when Rick hazards his guess. “All twenty four missing people reported were born on October thirty-first. Did you know, by the way, that North Hanging holds the Guinness World Record for most people born on Halloween? Almost four hundred in the last sixty-four years, that is, since the Guinness thing was first established.”

“That’s a lot,” Rick agrees. For such a small town, the number is actually staggering: six people born on the same day each year. For such a small population, it must mean that most children who currently live there share a birthday. 

What a strange coincidence. 

Thing is, because there are so many people born on the last day of October in the town, it is possible that the fact those who went missing share a birthday is also coincidental. It sounds like a reach, but the probability exists, so Rick can’t take the  _ same date of birth _ at face value just yet. It’s as good a first step as any, though.

“I’m wondering, could you get me information on their families? I’d like to see what became of them,” Rick says. 

Paul gives him a cocky grin. “Way ahead of you,” he says, and types a command on the PC which filters the results from before to only leave six entries.

“These are the people whose families are still in King County,” he explains. “I assume we don’t need to question the Greenes nor Mrs. Carol Peletier, but the rest should be interesting to check out. I will print out their details for you, since you’re so fond of traditional methods, old man,” he adds in a teasing tone.

Rick rolls his eyes. “Fuck you,” he says, which is not very professional, but whatever. He’s had a hard day, and it’s only early afternoon. 

The IT guy looks him up and down critically, making it very obvious he’s checking him out. “Nah. Thanks for the offer, though,” he says. “You’re handsome, but you’re not my type.”

Rick sighs, pats the man on the shoulder, and heads to the closest printer to grab his printouts. He doesn’t have words.

*

The first missing person on Rick’s list is Eleanor Trudeau, fifty-three at the time she went missing. Her remaining family includes three sons, a daughter and seven grandchildren aged between three to seventeen years old. Her disappearance was reported eight years ago on October twenty-seventh by her husband, but it wasn’t until November third when a search was actually conducted: while Michael, the husband, believed his wife was missing, the children didn’t think so. Supposedly, as a note on the initial report says, the woman had a planned visit to her sister’s place in Statesland, a small village south of Delilah in Sommer County; the sister didn’t have a phone and Eleanor didn’t believe in mobile phones. Thought they were bad for the constitution. Only when she wasn’t on the bus on the first of November did the daughter back up Michael’s claim about Eleanor being missing. Unfortunately, the older woman was never found, not unlike all other known missing persons Rick’s trying to investigate. Of her known family, Michael is listed as deceased. The sons and daughter have their own houses scattered all over North Hanging. 

Rick decides to visit the daughter, Janet Wilson, first, mainly because she lives the closest to the station and he thinks he can get it done during the lunch break. He finds the right place, knocks, and waits as a woman in her early thirties opens the door. 

“Good afternoon, madam,” he greets and introduces himself.

“I wanted to ask you about a delicate matter,” he explains to the woman’s confusion. 

“Yeah?” She asks suspiciously. 

“Eight years ago, when your mother went missing,” he says, and he can see the exact moment when the suspicion in Janet Wilson’s face transforms into fear. It’s not the reaction he expected. Why would the woman be afraid to be asked about it? Feeling like he has  _ something,  _ Rick presses on: “I know it was a long time ago, but maybe you remember stuff from that time. Something you never thought might have been important-”

“I have nothin’ to say,” Mrs. Wilson replies quickly. “I’m sorry, I left the stove… Makin’ dinner…” 

She shuts the door in Rick’s face before he can react. 

_ Well, that went great,  _ he thinks and shakes his head, torn between trying again and finding another person to question. The thing is, he doesn’t want to scare anyone, and he certainly doesn’t want any news of this investigation of his to make it back to Walsh, especially not while Daryl is missing. 

If anything happens to Daryl…

_ Nope, he’s gonna be fine. I’ll find him, even if I gotta interrogate this entire Goddamn town. _

Unfortunately, the other family members of the missing people from Rick’s list aren’t much more helpful. Some close the door in Rick’s face the moment he explains the reason for his visit, others do their best to convince him there was never anything remotely strange about the way their sister slash brother slash daddy slash granddaughter disappeared. After all, it happens in these parts, doesn’t it? People sometimes get lost in the woods and don’t turn up again, and it’s normal. Deputy Grimes would know if he were from here, after all.

It’s like somebody’s taken great measures to make sure nobody would talk. Rick can’t help but notice that all the people he’s visited sure seem to have done well for themselves. Big, well-kept houses, new cars in the driveways, beautiful yards; and it’s strange in some cases because some of those people haven’t worked a day in their lives while the others are manual laborers in the local factory. Nothing that would explain the amount of money needed for the sort of lives they all seem to lead.

“Oh, well,” a Sara Lewis says when Rick feigns well-meaning curiosity and asks about the beautiful, sleek Chrysler in her driveway. Wide-eyed and admiring, he pretends he’s never seen a prettier car in his entire life. 

Which might be true, but to be honest, Rick’s only concern when it comes to cars is that they are capable of getting him from point A to point B with minimal amounts of trouble on the way. If they can fit some furniture and two kiddy chairs, then all the better.

“My husband, he always plays those scratch lotteries. I used to think it was a waste of time, but then he started winning occasionally. Bigger sums, now and again. And me, well, I inherited some money from my good Auntie Jane. She was British, did you know that? A real lady, with all those fancy hats and things. Like the Queen! And she was so charming, so charming. Never got married, the poor dear, but I guess that was lucky for me, wasn’t it? No other family to leave all those diamonds to…”

Mrs. Lewis chatters on for a moment longer and Rick pretends to be engrossed in the story of how it was a bit of a hassle to get those diamonds safely across the ocean and how the taxes are outrageous, the Government should absolutely do something about them, it’s ridiculous that a woman can’t even enjoy a bit of a memento from her beloved Auntie without having to pay for it. Mentally, though, Rick wonders when exactly Mr. Lewis’ winning streak has started, when exactly the inheritance came to play. Did any of it even exist, or did the whole family get paid handsomely for keeping their mouths shut about the disappearance of Steven Lewis six years ago?

Who even has that kind of money?

Groaning, Rick decides he’ll have to postpone further investigation until at least the end of his work day. He’s already late from the lunch break. If he’s going to be walking around asking people about missing persons’ cases from years ago, he’d be better off doing it without drawing attention to himself. 

“Man, where you been so long?” Walsh asks cheerfully when he notices Rick finally returning to his desk.

“Ugh… had to run an errand for the IT dude, took me some time. What the hell is a memory chip, huh?” Rick replies with a somewhat sheepish grin. 

Walsh blinks. “We have an IT dude? How come I didn’t know that?” He asks. “Well, guess I get why porn’s been downloading faster on the net now, huh?” He jokes. Or at least Rick hopes he does.

He really, really doesn’t like Shane Walsh.

*

The darkness doesn’t fucking give up. At first, Daryl hoped that maybe he was concussed and that’s why he wasn’t unable to see around too well, but nope. The nausea and lightheadedness pass eventually as he sits in one place without moving around much, and even though his brain clears up some, his eyes are nowhere closer to seeing a way out. 

“You should try groping the walls,” Beth suggests. “Maybe there are some built-in steps or, I don’t know, ledges. Maybe you could climb out that way.”

“Ain’t worth the risk,” Daryl grumbles. “Could fall off an’ gore myself. Worse, could hit my head an’ die like-”

He pauses.

He still hasn’t told Beth that he’d found her body. Hasn’t told her how she died, and he doesn’t know if he wants to. Because… it’s too damn unfair. If she got murdered, well, that sucks, but it’s not something that could’ve been prevented, it’s not something she had any choice about. But no. It was an accident. A stupid, senseless accident, she slipped and hit her head, and she died from that, and it’s so frustrating and _so_ _fucking dumb._

No. Daryl’s not telling her. 

“... like a loser,” he finishes softly, and hates himself for it. 

Beth doesn’t seem to catch his internal conflict. She throws her arms up, sighs to the high heavens and rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe you’re just giving up,” she announces. “Weren’t you supposed to help me?”

“Damn it, girl, I ain’t gonna help ya if I’m dead,” Daryl snaps. “You think, what, this is some kinda fucked up vacation for me? Think I wanna be down here with ‘em fuckin’ rats an’ roaches? Believe me, if it were my choice, I’d rather be anywhere but here.”

“But you’re not even trying!” Beth exclaims. “I’m just so… so helpless, and so angry, and if I only could touch things! I’d bring you a ladder, or even a rope, anything. I’d help you,” she trails off, and Daryl notices her lower lip is wobbling.

The last thing he needs is a wailing ghost, so he does something that’s bound to become unpleasant very soon: he pulls the girl into a hug. Almost immediately the chill pierces him to the bone, but he doesn’t draw away even after he starts shivering. 

“‘s gonna be okay, Bethie,” he promises in a hoarse whisper. “It’s not yer fault, alright? None of it. ‘s all them. But it’s gonna be fine. I’m thinkin’ ‘bout a plan, y’know. They’s gonna come an’ get me, eventually, they’s need me for somethin’. Betcha I can punch Negan so hard he squeals.”

The joke has the desired effect of making Beth giggle. She sniffs softly, wipes her face on the sleeves of her denim jacket and pulls away, finally noticing Daryl’s trembling.

“You’re a foolish man, Daryl Dixon,” she says fondly. “And good. Such a good man, with such a good heart. But so foolish. You could get pneumonia-”

“Shut up,” Daryl groans. “Ya needed comfortin’ so I gave it to you. Stop makin’ me regret it.”

“You don’t really regret it,” Beth notes, and she’s right. She doesn’t need to be so smug about it, but Daryl supposes he can forgive her.

“Tell me stories,” he demands.

Because there’s not much else to do in the darkness, and Daryl isn’t much of a talker. He likes listening to people, though, and he figures Beth could be a good distraction right now. The problem is, unlike what Beth might believe, Daryl isn’t completely indifferent to the possibility that he may die down here in this silo. He’s in pain, he’s cold - was, even before hugging Beth, because some asshole took his jacket - and he’s actually scared. The chance anybody’s looking for him at all is slim; Rick might or might not, and Carol may try, and also Jesus, but not a single one of them is especially likely to find him here. After all, the Leaky Mill is nothing but a funny landmark in the meadows. Even Daryl didn’t know it had an entrance. 

“What stories?” Beth asks, scrunching her face up in thought.

“Tell me ‘bout Rick,” Daryl says, “‘bout his kids, too. Tell me everythin’.”

Beth smiles mischievously and pokes him in the arm. “Oooh, that’s so cute! Okay, I’ll tell you stories about Rick. Mmm.”

She seats herself comfortably a few inches away from Daryl to make sure their limbs aren’t touching. Daryl appreciates the thoughtfulness; his shivering has subsided some, but not entirely, and he’s not sure how long he could stand physical contact with what felt, to him, like a damn freezing wind. 

“So. Rick Grimes,” Beth says. “I knew him when I was a little girl. He used to visit sometimes with his parents during harvest season, helped out on the farm. You know, he’s very good with horses. Like, seriously good. Even better than Maggie, and Maggie is like a real horse whisperer. But Rick, Rick’s got this connection with horses. One summer, I think he was sixteen, he helped one of our mares give birth. Daddy wasn’t home, he went to assist with a scheduled birth on another farm, but well, it already started so there was really no choice. And Rick did great, and afterwards, the mare - her name was Tilly, I think - she wouldn’t let anyone tend to her anymore. Only Rick. She was really heartbroken when he eventually went home after summer ended.”

Daryl chuckles. He can’t really imagine Rick as a teenager, but he has no trouble picturing the man as he is now, tending to horses, speaking to them softly, feeding them treats. To be honest, if he didn’t usually see Rick in the uniform, he almost could’ve thought the man was a farmer. Maybe he could be. Maybe he’d like it. When Daryl gets out of here and this whole damn business is over and done with, he thinks he’ll move somewhere far away from North Hanging, and he’ll take Rick with he can, and they’ll have a farm or a ranch, and-

“How are his kids?” He asks before his daydreaming can get even more serious than planning a future together. Then he realizes he’s asking about Rick’s children which would be a part of that future; and he’s somewhat surprised because… he’s actually excited, about maybe helping Rick raise a couple of children, about sharing a life with them. 

It’s so strange, because he and Rick are basically strangers who fuck sometimes, and he’s probably being dumb for hoping he means as much to Rick as Rick means to him. He’d never been in love before, and it’s such a difficult feeling. It’s too soon, he thinks, aren’t people supposed to fall in love with someone they at least know the address of?

Beth doesn’t seem to think there’s anything wrong about the question or even about Daryl being so obviously head over hills for Rick Grimes. She smiles and says, “Well, Carl is really cute, but he’s a real grumpy-pants, too. He doesn’t like summer, milk unless it’s from a cow he knows personally, cartoons which don’t feature talking cats and, I think, the President? Which wouldn’t make him very popular here in the South, I guess,” she laughs softly. “He’s a very lovely boy, though. Helps around the farm, loves his daddy very much and ikes to take care of his sister, though obviously only in limited capacity. He’s only five, after all.

“Judith, on the other hand, has no dislikes whatsoever. She’ll eat anything. Seriously, I think I saw her eat a whole earthworm once, it was terrifying. Rick said she tried to eat a dead bird she found in her grandpa’s garden back in Delilah. So, well, definitely not a picky eater.”

Daryl has a sudden thought that the little girl obviously takes after him; he scolds himself mentally,  _ she never even met ya,  _ but he can’t help it. He’s already imagining a little baby girl he’d carry on his shoulders. She’s three, if he remembers correctly, so she’s only just grown out of being a toddler; she’d be tiny in comparison to his broad frame, but Daryl wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her, ever. She’d be his little ass-kicker.

“Carl looks like a mini-Rick, you know,” Beth says, somehow catching on to Daryl’s desire to paint pictures of the children in his mind. “His hair is lighter, but he’s got the same blue eyes and smile. Judith is a carbon copy of her mother, though. Lori had dark hair and the most incredible cheekbones, she was really, really pretty. But Judy has Rick’s smile, too.”

It helps Daryl’s imagination that he’s actually seen Lori Grimes once, although the way he saw her,  _ really pretty  _ wasn’t the description that came to mind. She looked so tired and so sad. He wonders how she died, he’s been curious from the start, but he didn’t ask Rick and he doesn’t ask Beth, either. It’s not his business and, anyway, it’s not that hard to put two and two together: Rick lost his wife three years ago. Their daughter is three years old. 

“Three years old, so she talks some, yeah? Any interestin’ words she knows?” Daryl asks, trying to direct his thoughts to a brighter subject.

“Well, she calls Rick  _ daddy _ and knows how to ask for potty, and she’s very good at coming up with entirely new words for everyday items,” Beth replies, grinning. “Daddy said Maggie was like that, too, and that it means Judy will be an artist when she grows up. He doesn’t know what Carl will grow into, though. It changes every week. Last I knew was dinosaur hunter,” she jokes.

“How exactly do you hunt dinosaurs?” Daryl asks incredulously. 

A voice Daryl doesn’t recognize replies, “With a really big rifle.”

He looks up, surprised, and sees Lori Grimes standing right in front of him. He almost jumps on instinct, but the woman - the ghost - the vengeful spirit? - she lifts her arms in a placating gesture and sits on her knees.

“I don’t bite,” she promises. 

“What is it, Daryl?” Beth asks, looking at him strangely. Then, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

_ Ha-fucking-ha. Sarcastic little shit, _ Daryl thinks and shakes his head. 

“This woulda been less awkward if ghosts could see each other,” he mutters. “Beth, Rick’s wife is here,” he explains to the startled teenager. “Mrs. Grimes - can I call you Lori? - umm, nice to meet you, I’m Daryl and-”

“And you’re sleeping with my husband,” Lori supplies. 

It takes a moment for Daryl to realize she looks amused, not pissed off, and it’s a very tense moment when he stares through wide eyes at the ghost he still isn’t sure  _ isn’t  _ actually a vengeful spirit. But her lips twitch into a smile, and she huffs a tiny laugh into her hand. 

“I’m just playing with you,” she reassures. “In fact, I think I should be grateful. I haven’t seen Rick so in love with somebody since our first date back in high school. Since he met you, it’s like he’s finally living again instead of just surviving.”

“That’s, uhhh, real great,” Daryl mumbles nervously. “So yer not, like, gonna go apeshit on me any moment now? ‘cause I kinda don’t got salt on me an’...”

“Is that what it was?” Lori asks, arching an eyebrow. “From my perspective, whatever you put on the floor in your house, it was like a giant hole in the world. I could see everything around it, but not inside it. It had me wondering…”

“Sorry,” Daryl says, “thought ya were a vengeful spirit. Ummm. They’s usually all bloody-like.”

Lori accepts his explanation with a nod. “I think Rick saw me a couple times, too,” she says, “and he wasn’t exactly thrilled with all the blood, either. It’s annoying. I can’t change into normal clothes. It’s like this gown is a part of my body. Do you know it’s got no back? My butt is literally hanging out and I can’t cover it. I had to make sure to always stand facing Rick, in case he saw me. It would have been terrible if he saw his dead wife’s naked butt in the middle of the street all of a sudden.”

Daryl can’t help but chuckle at the rant. He didn’t expect it, but it’s enough to convince him the woman is in fact a regular ghost of the  _ unfinished business  _ variety. And she’s got a sense of humor. Already he can understand what Rick saw in her. It makes him even more puzzled about what the hell Rick’s seeing in  _ him. _

“Well, yeah,” he says, “all ghosts I seen gotta wear what they died in. Sorta sucks, I know.”

“You don’t say,” Lori grumbles, and sighs. “I wish I knew about that before I died. I would have screamed at the doctors to at least bring me a pair of undies. A hairbrush would have been nice, too.”

“What’s she saying, what’s she saying?” Beth asks excitedly.

Daryl nods, acknowledging her, and tells Lori, “Beth Greene is here with us, too. She was, uh, taken, by the same people who brought me here.”

Lori nods. “I know,” she admits. “Tell her I said  _ hi. _ ”

So Daryl refers the conversation so far to Beth, who looks very unhappy about not being able to interact with Rick’s late wife. It must be so incredibly lonely to be a ghost. Daryl thinks about Lori Grimes, who apparently followed her husband for the last three years - and who, after all this time, still apparently had the presence of mind to keep her butt away from any accidental glances. 

“So why are ya here?” He asks after a while, when he’s done playing interpreter between the two. He doesn’t mind Lori’s company, it’s actually sort of uplifting, but he can’t understand why she’s by his side right now when before, he only saw her with Rick. 

“I wanted to meet you properly,” Lori replies with a sheepish smile. “Usually, I’m watching the children, but I saw what happened to you and I thought it was an opportunity to talk to you without Rick around.”

“Okay,” Daryl says, frowning, “but why’s you gotta meet me?”

“Well,” Lori hesitates. Then she shrugs. “I might as well tell you, I guess. You’re my unfinished business. Or, well, a part of it I think.”

Blinking at the unexpected answer, Daryl requests clarification.

Lori gives it freely. “I can’t leave until Rick and the children are happy,” she explains. “I didn’t have the chance to tell them, before I died, that I loved them all so much and didn’t regret anything. You know… after Carl was born, the doctors said another pregnancy would be too dangerous. We were using protection with Rick, but I had a nasty cold and took antibiotics, and I think it messed with my hormonal pills… that’s what my gynecologist said, anyway. 

“For a very brief moment, we considered terminating, but I knew how much Rick wanted to have a big family, so I decided to keep it. And I thought God was rewarding me or something, because throughout this second pregnancy, I was energetic and so incredibly happy, you wouldn’t believe it. Everything was sunshine and rainbows,” Lori laughs fondly at the memory. “I’m sorry to say that I spent a considerable amount of our savings on silly things, like unbelievable amounts of baby clothes. I was so happy, and Rick was too, and Carl didn’t exactly understand what was going on yet, but he took after our moods.”

“What happened?” Daryl asks gently. He knows, but it’s obvious to him that after all this time, Lori just wants to talk to somebody who can actually hear her.

Indeed, she gives him a grateful smile. “I was almost due, just a few days short when I had to be rushed to intensive care. Internal bleeding from uterine perforation. Rick was at work and they couldn’t reach him. I yelled at the poor doctors the whole time that if there’s a choice between me and my baby, they better save my daughter or I’d sue them to hell and back.”

“And they did,” Daryl concludes.

“They tried their best to save us both,” Lori says, “and they almost succeeded. You know? I held her for a moment, before I died. Just a few seconds, they just told me she was healthy and would make it, and then I got lightheaded and everything sort of swam in front of me. Like when you spin around too much, and suddenly stop, it was that kind of feeling. And then I fell asleep.”

Daryl awkwardly pats her on the shoulder. 

Lori falls silent for a moment, and that’s when they all hear the noise of something heavy being moved somewhere above. Daryl jumps to his feet - too fast, his head spins a little and he has to support himself against the wall. He looks up into the complete darkness which now has a single rectangular point of light in it.

“Hey, you fuckin’ bastard! Let me outta here!” He shouts, but nobody replies, nobody even acknowledges that he was heard. 

Daryl pats around the ground for a rock or anything he could throw, but doesn’t find anything like that. When he straightens, he notices movement up there. He waits, readying himself to pounce if he gets an opportunity, but the only thing that happens is a dull thud a few feet from him and then the noise above comes again before the light up there disappears.

At least he knows where the door is now.

Carefully, moving forward in small steps to avoid tripping over anything - Beth’s unfair fate still fresh in his mind - he eventually finds an obstacle. He crouches in front of it, explores with his hands - a crate. Apples. An entire damn crate of apples.

He’s getting hungry. How long had he been down here?

Sighing, Daryl reaches for one of the apples. Why not? He might as well eat if he’s stuck down here. 

“Don’t,” Lori says urgently, before Daryl can even lift the fruit to his mouth. “Don’t eat them. Apples are a part of it,” she explains.

“Part of what?” Daryl asks. He glares at the crate and pushes it away with his foot. It’s heavy, and it pisses Daryl off, how it’s going to sit here all tempting. 

“I don’t know,” Lori tells him, frustrated. “I know it’s a part of it, I heard those men say it, but I don’t know what they’re planning. I’m sorry.”

“‘s fine,” Daryl mutters, and isn’t it a bit funny how he’s been reassuring ghosts when he’s the one in a situation which warrants a dire need for reassurance? Oh well. Whatever. 

He sits back down at his earlier spot, wraps his arms around himself and decides to take a nap. Might as well, if he’s not getting out any time soon.

Before he falls asleep, he thinks about Rick. He wonders if the man noticed him missing. He hopes so. He hopes he’ll see Rick again. 

He hopes they’ll both still be alive when he does. 


	8. Ghosts That We Knew

The Flagon Wagon is a bar close by the station. It’s one of two such establishments in North Hanging, which really says a lot about the town: there is only one grocery store and no gym, but there are two bars and at least three liquor stores Rick knows about. As far as bars go, the Flagon Wagon is pretty much average: not too clean, not too shabby, dimly lit and dark with smoke. When Rick enters, Shane Walsh and his two friends are occupying the bar stools by the counter, laughing and chatting with the barman. 

Walsh notices him almost immediately and waves him over with a giant grin on his face. He looks so damn friendly, Rick almost feels sick. He and Carol Peletier had a talk a while earlier; the woman was planning to go out to the woods tomorrow to look for Daryl and it was incredibly difficult to convince her it’s a terrible idea. Besides whoever it is that’s kidnapping people - Rick is still quite sure it’s Walsh - the woods really aren’t all that safe to wander around in the Fall. The last thing anyone needs is for another person to get lost. 

He tries not to think about it as he approaches Walsh and his companions. He’s getting tired of pretending to be cheerful, but he tells himself once again how it’s for Daryl’s sake, and it helps somewhat. 

“Grimes here is the guy I told y’all about earlier,” Walsh introduces him to his friends.

“Cool,” one of the men replies, then orders another beer. There’s something shifty in the way he seems to steal glances everywhere, like he’s trying to avoid being caught looking. Uneasily, Rick can’t help but classify him as a pervert. Maybe pedo. But surely even Walsh wouldn’t associate with that. Maybe this time, Rick’s instinct is wrong. After all, he’s paranoid right now, and likely will be until he finds Daryl and takes him home, safe and sound.

And Beth too, of course.

“Name’s Gareth,” the shifty man says lazily. 

The other friend of Walsh’s is a guy with a horrible scar on the side of his face. He looks up at Rick from his mug and mutters, “‘sup. I’m Dwight. Pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Rick replies insincerely. He doesn’t even try to make it sound honest because, really, both of these guys seem to be exactly as enthusiastic to be meeting him as he is them. “So, Walsh, you been saying something about the good of the town?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Walsh pats him on the back. “Slow down, slow down. We’re in no hurry! Gotta drink with us first, right? Joe!” 

The bartender turns towards them. He’s an older man who looks more like a member of a motorcycle gang than a barkeep, and he gives Rick a measuring glare before he looks at Walsh critically.

“You’re sure of him?” He asks. 

Walsh nods. “Yeah, he’s made of good stuff. A true brother, y’know.”

The barkeep shrugs. “That’s enough for me,” he decides and pours two fingers of Jack in a glass which he then slides over to Rick. “On the house, friend. Name’s Joe, I claim ownership of this here fine establishment.”

“Very fine,” Rick agrees. Joe laughs like it’s a great joke and the others follow. It’s like a damn frat party in here and Rick learns a new thing about himself: at twenty six, he’s entirely too damn old for this.

They drink together, Walsh and his friends have some laughs at Rick’s expense because he’s an outsider, and the hour Rick was hoping to spend with them turns into three he’s forced to. He’s no closer to getting any information out of any of them and he’s seriously considering following Carol Peletier’s idea of searching the woods on his damn own - it must be the booze speaking, - when finally, Walsh leans into his personal space, his breath stinking of whiskey and his large hand placed on the nape of Rick’s neck like a vice. 

“So, the thing is, Grimes,” the other deputy says. “We here in North Hanging, we know how nice we have it. Don’t we, boys?” He asks over his shoulder and doesn’t wait for an answer. 

“We know it’s fuckin’ nice here. And we love our pretty lil’ town. It got its flaws, I don’t say it don’t, but we over… overlook ‘em. They isn’t important, okay? Because the town, it provides. It nurtures. We love it an’ town, it loves us back. You know?”

“Okay,” Rick replies, unsure where this is going but feeling like his time’s being wasted.

“Y’all don’t get it yet. But ya will, tomorrow,” Walsh promises, patting the spot on Rick’s neck where his big paw was just curled around. “Lemme tell ya all ‘bout Josiah Steinberg an’ what we found on his property eleven years ago. Yeah?”

“Sure,” Rick says, and doesn’t have to pretend to sound intrigued. “Sounds like quite a story.”

“You got no idea, brother,” Walsh announces. 

And then a new arrival interrupts the story time. 

“Walsh,” says the man who’s just entered the bar like he owns it. Rick is pretty sure he’s seen this guy somewhere before, but he can’t pinpoint where exactly. It doesn’t matter; the man’s trouble. He makes every single nerve ending in Rick’s body tingle with a kind of nervous anticipation he tends to associate with the foreknowledge of an assault. It’s like his brain is warning him he’s about to get punched. 

“Negan! Brother, I was so hopin’ to see ya,” Walsh greets the newcomer with the sort of melty grin only a very drunk man can manage. 

“Yeah, yeah, I can see that,” the man addressed as Negan replies, rolling his eyes. “Come on you fucking oaf, I got shit I need you to take care of.”

“But I was just telling Grimes about the treasure!” Walsh protests in what sounds like a very bad impression of a whining toddler.

Negan has the face of someone long-suffering. He looks at Rick like he’s only just noticed him and says, “I promise you, he’s not always this damn annoying. I’m Negan,” he introduces himself. “Teacher at the school. I heard you’ve got two children? Maybe I’ll be teaching your little ones soon.”

Rick sincerely hopes not. 

Before Negan pulls him away, Walsh addresses Rick once again. “You,” he says. “You needsa be there tomorrow. You gotta be there an’ see. Midnight. Yeah?”

“Yeah, fine,” Rick agrees, and gives Negan a questioning look.

The teacher groans and takes a piece of paper out of the pocket of his leather jacket. He quickly writes down some direction and passes the paper to Rick, then helps Walsh stand and drags him to the backroom.

And Rick leaves almost immediately after looking down at the paper. He all but runs out of the bar and all the way to his house, and he makes sure to lock both the front door and the one at the back leading to the cozy little garden. Then he shuts himself in the bathroom and looks closely at the paper again.

On the other side of Negan’s instructions, he can clearly recognize a piece of Daryl’s map, the one with the Leaky Mill. It’s unmistakable. There’s a path marked with a pen and then emboldened with the pink highlighter Rick bought Daryl. It’s no damn coincidence that it found itself to Negan’s pocket. 

That Negan guy knows where Daryl is, possibly is the one who ki- who took him. 

Cursing himself for letting Walsh and his freaky friends talk him into drinking so much, Rick grabs his phone and calls the number Paul from IT gave him earlier. After three rings, it goes to voicemail - like Paul said it would - and Rick leaves a message.

“I know who got Daryl. I need your help.”

*

It’s way too early in the morning when there’s a knock on Rick’s door. He looks at the alarm clock on the bedside table and groans painfully. Five-thirty. What kind of a degenerate is waking him up before six after an evening of drinking? He honestly hopes it’s someone with a Tylenol because he’s pretty sure he’s got no painkillers at home at all. He considers staying in bed; he was planning on using the opportunity to call in sick anyway, and to go out searching for Daryl from the list of addresses provided last night by Paul, but the person knocking on his door doesn’t give up. 

So Rick finally gets out of his sheets and, very slowly, heads towards the door, groping all walls on the way for additional support. He’s hungover and hates himself for it. Daryl needs him at one hundred percent and here he is, head spinning and stomach turning, taking what feels like ten minutes to make the fifty steps from his bedroom to the front door. When he finally opens it, he is greeted by the sight of Carol Peletier accompanied by a bulky man with ginger hair and beard. 

“You look terrible,” Mrs. Peletier informs him and pushes inside the house, the red-haired man following after her with just a polite nod to Rick.

Only after the door closes behind them does Mrs. Peletier explain herself. “This is Abraham Ford,” she introduces the man with her. “And he has things he wants to say to you.”

Now, that’s enough to clear Rick’s head in a blink. Abraham Ford is on the list of family members of one of the missing persons, an Ellen Ford, his wife; and besides that, as everybody in this town is aware, he’s also the current owner of the only production facility in the entire county, the munitions factory right outside of North Hanging. 

It’s so damn interesting that he reopened the factory not a month after the disappearance of his young wife ten years ago, when according to Paul, there was nothing to indicate any connections that would get him government deals and private investors to revitalize the old plant. It seems like in just under a month, Abraham Ford not only came upon a great amount of money, but also somehow developed connections with important members of the government who secured him military deals, and to add to that, he somehow got the factory running after it stood desolate for years _ . _ In less than thirty days. 

Of course, there’s the possibility that Ford started the development long before he secured the actual permits. It’s not outside the realm of probability that he came upon an inheritance or won a huge amount of money, like Mrs. Lewis and her husband. But somehow, Rick finds it all to be a weird coincidence how all these people seem to come to great fortunes after losing their relatives in the woods of King County. None of them appear to have gained more than Abraham Ford, who currently stands in the middle of Rick’s living room, a bulking man so curled into himself he looks somehow small.

“If I tell you this, that’s a damn big target on all our backs,” he says in a subdued tone of voice which doesn’t suit him at all. He sounds defeated, scared even, but also determined to get this done, whatever  _ this  _ is.

Rick nods. “Think I might already have one,” he assures. Because if Negan realizes Rick knows where that piece of paper came from… or if Daryl lets something slip about his relationship with Rick… Then well, the charade will be over and those guys, they’ll come for Rick as well. 

“You don’t know what shit you stepped into, then,” Ford informs him with a regretful sort of expression. “These guys, they’re fucking ruthless. They’ll take everything you love from you and they’ll make it seem like you fucking owe them for it, that’s what they do. That’s how they’ve been doing it for years now.”

“I need specific information if you want me to do something,” Rick says. “Uh… want tea or coffee? Sorry, it’s terribly early…”

“Just sit down and let the man talk, Grimes,” Mrs. Peletier snaps at him and Rick finds himself unwilling to ever disobey her no matter what. So he takes a seat on the sofa and looks expectantly at Ford.

Who shakes his head, but continues nevertheless. “After my Ellen was taken, I thought I had nothing left to live for. We had kids, I have kids, but they don’t live with me anymore. I… drove them to my mama in Houston. Texas. As far from here as I could. Our daughter Becca, she was born on Halloween too, you know. I couldn’t risk it.”

Rick almost wants to interrupt and ask questions, but the glare Mrs. Peletier fixes on his convinces him otherwise. Damn, but the woman is scary.

“Then a few days after she went missing, I got the strangest damn call from the judge in Atlanta. Apparently my old dad, a good-for-nothing bum who got my mama knocked up and then bailed, kicked the bucket. I couldn’t shed one tear for the old fucker, but then they tell me, old man left me two million dollars. Then the old plant turned out to have been his as well, like fuck, damn it, old man, how do you have so much and still not have the balls to take care of your pregnant girl? Anyway, the moment I got it all settled, the inheritance and shit, government agencies started calling with business proposals,” he pauses, looks down at his hands, then back at Rick.

“And then they came knocking.”

He takes a very long time to gather the - courage? Willpower? - to say any more. Finally, however, he swallows down a big lump in his throat and finally gives Rick some answers. Tells about how he was visited by Shane Walsh, who at that time was just the neighborhood bully, and Philip Blake, who was a young man with big ambitions and no morality to boot. From the moment he saw them that morning, Abraham Ford understood they had something to do with his wife’s disappearance, but he didn’t want to make accusations. Turned out, he didn’t have to. Blake was very straight-forward about it.

“I’m sorry, she’s dead,” he said and didn’t sound sorry at all. “But the upside of it is, you’re going to be handsomely rewarded for your sacrifice for the good of our town. It’s already started, hasn’t it?”

And the thing was, he was right. The previously unexplainable streak of good luck suddenly made horrible sense as the two young men in front of Abraham calmly told him to feel pride instead of grief. They didn’t outright tell him what it was they did, but it didn’t matter. He knew, from the moment he looked at Blake’s polite but cold smile, that he would never see Ellen again. 

“I couldn’t go to the police about it,” Ford adds in a breaking voice. “Walsh’s daddy was sheriff then, Blake’s uncle was Georgia’s senator. In comparison, I was nobody. They said they could make it look like I killed… like I killed my wife.”

After Mr. Ford leaves soon afterwards, Carol Peletier looks at Rick seriously. “They’re making human sacrifices,” she says grimly. 

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Rick protests. “This is not some horror flick-”

“Well how else would you explain it, Deputy?” Mrs. Peletier asks, tone challenging. “Ultimate sacrifice for the good of North Hanging? And then everyone suddenly had their dreams come true after their loved ones were taken. Ford with his factory and money, the others with their wealth, me with…” She trails off.

Rick gives her a curious glance.

“Me with wanting Ed gone from my life,” the woman whispers. “The truth is, I never wanted to marry that man, but my father all but sold me to him for a few crates of beer. He’s an abusive bastard and I should have dropped his ass as soon as Sophia was born, but I was scared. I just… I guess I always hoped I’d find a knight in shining armor who’d save me from my unhappy marriage. I even… I even wanted that knight to be Daryl,” she blushes, and Rick is reminded how Walsh made fun of Mrs. Peletier’s obvious crush on Daryl Dixon. It makes him a little jealous, but he crushes the feeling in the bud. He’ll have all the time in the world for jealousy later: after Daryl is rescued.

“And then Ed was arrested for murder,” he finishes the woman’s story.

Mrs. Peletier sighs. “I guess I got my wish,” she admits, “though it was an evil witch who saved me, not a knight, and there was a price to pay. A price I didn’t want to pay.”

“It might’ve still been a coincidence,” Rick says, though he doesn’t really think so himself. Still, he finds it really hard to believe in the supernatural element being involved in all of this; a human sacrifice which actually works, ghosts, everything related to Halloween. It sounds so much like a cheap horror movie scenario. 

But Daryl knew about how Rick’s related to the Greenes, even though Rick never told him, and… well. It  _ does  _ all align a bit too well to still be considered a coincidence.

“They want me to go somewhere with them tonight,” Rick remembers and goes to find the paper with instructions Negan scribbled for him last night. Mrs. Peletier looks at them and frowns. 

“That’s somewhere in the Steinberg property,” she says. “There used to be a great farm there, and an orchard. I don’t remember a lot, it already went down when I was a little girl, but I think there were rumors about some witchcraft going on there? And as soon as old Josiah Steinberg kicked the bucket, everything fell apart.”

“When was this?” Rick asks.

“About thirty years ago?” Mrs. Peletier guesses. “I’d need to check the records to see for sure.”

“I need to confirm something,” Rick announces, and goes to find his phone in the bedroom. He calls Paul’s number again and asks his question; not a minute passes before the has an answer in his email inbox. He returns to Mrs. Peletier in the living room.

“Apparently, the disappearances of people born on the last day of October were quite regular until twenty-nine years ago, when they suddenly stopped. They picked up again ten years ago, one missing person per year,” he reads out loud. “In the years between, there were some disappearances here and there, but none of them match the profile.”

“Ten years ago?” Mrs. Peletier repeats. “Huh. I remember in February 2007, the state had plans to abolish King County, make it part of Sommer County. There were protests and everyone was talking about it for months. And then I think, Ellen Ford went missing, and after that, nobody ever mentioned it again.”

The picture which emerges when the pieces of the puzzle are all placed together is not something Rick wanted to consider, but he has to acquiesce because all the evidence points to the supernatural. Ten years ago, Walsh and his friends found something on Josiah Steinberg’s farm and used that something in a terrible way to ensure… what? The good of the town and its people? By sacrificing others, one person born on Halloween a year. Do they do it on Halloween, too? But if that’s so… they already have Beth, so why do they need Daryl as well?

Unless what Daryl said was true, and Beth is… Beth is really gone. 

*

While Rick does call in sick, Mrs. Peletier decides to go to work in order not to disappoint the kids; apparently, she’s the one in charge of all the Halloween festivities at the school today. There’s too much going on for her to stay, and Rick doesn’t need her for the information gathering process anyway. He only needs Paul, who’s surprisingly knowledgeable in what Rick’s sure is hacking for a young man working for a small-town police department. Well, as long as it helps. He’s past caring about illegal right now. He’s got a boyfriend to save.

His original plan was based around the list of properties owned by Negan which Paul sent over last night. It’s obsolete now, since Rick’s pretty sure wherever Daryl’s being held, it’s close to the meeting place for tonight and, as such, it must be located within the boundaries of the Steinberg property. So Rick finds his laptop - as he thought, it’s in one of the boxes he hadn’t unpacked before - and he connects it to the Internet. 

The local maps from circa thirty years ago are surprisingly easy to find on the official fanpage of King County; why the hell the county has a fanpage, Rick can’t begin to guess, but he supposes if there are people willing to kill their neighbors for the good of North Hanging, creating a fanpage on Facebook is mild in comparison. Anyway, there are maps, and Rick takes a photo of one of them with his phone. He notices that a small section of the abandoned farm borders upon Hershel’s property. It explains why Beth might’ve gone through the old fields to return home from church… whenever it was she really was taken.

There are only two buildings left standing at the Steinberg farm. One is the silo dubbed the Leaky Mill, the other is a barn. The house burned down fifteen years ago after it was hit by lightning during the nastiest storm of that decade, and any other outbuildings were gone even before that. The instructions from Negan don’t seem to point to either building, but Rick thinks he might check out the barn first, simply due to the fact it’s closer to the Greene farm and so, easier accessible to him without drawing attention. 

It would be ideal if he could get Daryl out of the clutches of his captors before he’s due to meet Walsh and the others tonight. Without further ado, Rick gets dressed in something he won’t miss if it gets dirty or damaged and drives to the Greene farm. From there, after saying hi to Hershel and the others, and updating Maggie on the progress without mentioning that Beth… well… might never be found, he heads into the fields and in search of the places on his maps.

The barn, he finds really quickly. Unfortunately, it’s empty and has very likely been so for at least the last decade. One of the walls and part of the ceiling have collapsed, making way for the nature to take over what was once a human’s claim. There’s a tree a birch tree growing in the corner and Rick spies a nest in the grass, possibly belonging to a family of quails, though he’s not sure.

What he is sure of is, Daryl was never there.

He proceeds to the Leaky Mill once he’s done examining the barn. Unfortunately, it shows that he doesn’t know the lay of the land all too well because he gets lost on the way and has to backtrack a good bit. Eventually though, he finds the old silo. It’s only about twenty-something feet tall, with no entrance visible anywhere. Most older tower silos like this one not only open at the top, where grain is loaded and removed, but also have a regular door on the side near the top. Try as he might, however, Rick can’t see any door on the Leaky Mill, and anyway, the place looks about as desolate as the barn. It’s quite improbable that Negan or whoever hauled Daryl into the silo from the top. How would they do that, with a ladder? Daryl’s not exactly a lightweight.

Which means Daryl’s probably being kept somewhere entirely else and Rick’s wasted a lot of time for nothing.

He returns to town some twenty minutes after three o’clock. It’s already starting to dark, which isn’t really unusual for the last day of October, but… somehow, twilight seems like a threat to Rick today, like he’s going to lose something to the slowly falling gloom of the night. 

_ No,  _ he tells himself firmly.  _ I’m not losing him. _

A wave of regret fills him at the thought that Beth is possibly already lost. He believes it more the longer he considers the possibility; it just makes sense, if the purpose of the kidnappings is a single human sacrifice on Halloween. Which is an assumption, but one that sounds reasonable. Holding on to hope now would be foolish. Still, Rick can’t allow himself to stop and grieve for the time being. There is too much at stake. He has to find Daryl before the evil ritual and, he decides, he also has to stop Walsh, Blake and Negan, and whoever else they’ve gotten involved in their murderous witchcraft club, once and for all.

He’s got a few hours to spare before the meeting with Walsh and the others; it’s more than enough time for Rick to drive to the suburbs of Delilah to Lori’s parents’ house. He can’t help the sudden urge to see Carl and Judith. He needs to see them, to make certain that they’re fine, maybe to hug them before he heads into danger tonight. 

Neither of his children was born on Halloween, which never mattered as much as it does now. At least in this aspect, they’re not under threat from anybody in North Hanging. Carl’s birthday in September was probably the closest. Rick’s going to throw a damn big party for both of his kids for next year’s birthdays. 

He finds Carl and Judy in the garden with their grandmother as he arrives. They don’t notice them, busy with their preparations. The children are both dressed in the cutest zombie costumes Rick’s ever had the pleasure of seeing. Lori’s mother, Janice, is not dressed up. She claims Halloween is only good for little delinquents and should, in fact, be prohibited to good God-fearing folk. And yet, she was the one who made the costumes. 

She’s just one of those women who have Opinions just for the sake of being very firm about them. Reminds Rick of his sister. 

“What are you doing there?” Janice asks when she notices Rick admiring the kids from behind the picket fence. “Come on inside, boy, don’t just lurk there like some creep!”

Only then do the children look up from what seems like a map of the houses in the neighborhood that Carl was probably explaining to Judith. Their reactions are different, but both children are obviously happy to see him; Judith falls into his arms as soon as he’s inside the gate, squealing loudly, while Carl gives him a barely-restrained smile. He’s all of five years old and thinks it means he has to be a real man now; and obviously, real men act mature and don’t show off their emotions. Rick’s tried to explain it’s not true, but to no avail. Janice said to leave it alone. It’ll pass on its own. Children are like that.

“Are you gonna take us trick-or-treating?” Carl asks, clearly overjoyed at the idea.

Rick really didn’t, but now that the idea is on the table, he considers it. Would it really be so bad if he spent some time with his kids? There’s literally nothing he can do for Daryl until he meets Walsh later, unless he counts going blindly into the woods to search in the dark as a viable option. He’s got nowhere else to be, so why not do this? In the very least, it’ll take his mind off of increasingly gloomy scenarios regarding what’s going to happen tonight.

So he takes Carl and Judith around the neighborhood. The community agreed that the house owners receptive to the fun of trick-or-treating should mark their porches with an orange sash, so that there’s no mistake and everyone can feel welcome. Rick walks among the houses, the majority of which are marked with a sash. His hands are both occupied with his children’s tiny hands he holds. They insisted on carrying their own baskets with sweets. Because the neighborhood is mostly comprised of elderly people who live far away from their own grandchildren, their haul is very bountiful. Eventually, before the last few houses, Judith becomes tired and claims she can’t move.

“My legsies hurt, daddy,” she complains, so Rick picks her up and carries her. She still manages to hold on to her basket, though, which means Rick can still hold Carl’s hand. If the boy is tired, too, he doesn’t mention it. 

Mrs. Portman’s house is the last on their agenda for the day. They step on the porch and Judith knocks energetically on the door. Mrs. Portman opens, dressed in the full garb of a typical fairytale witch, complete with a hat and a very crooked nose with a wart near the tip. For her eighty years, she’s a lively lady with a great sense of humor.

“Good evening, Rick,” she greets happily. “And hello, little zombies!”

“Rawr,” Judith replies in her best rendition of a zombie, which sounds exactly the same as her rendition of a dinosaur because she doesn’t even know what a zombie sounds like.

“Good evening, Mrs. Portman,” Carl says politely and lifts his basket. “Trick or treat?”

“Oh, now, such well-behaved little zombies deserve only the best treats,” Mrs. Portman decides. She retrieves two giants blocks of Cadbury’s milk salted caramel chocolate from inside the house, and drops them inside the baskets.

Carl’s grin threatens to split his face. “Thank you, Mrs. Portman!” He exclaims, echoed by Judith who has trouble saying the woman’s name correctly. 

Mrs. Portman laughs, then pats both children on the heads. “You’re very welcome,” she says. He looks up at Rick then, and there’s something piercing in her eyes, like she’s seeing him for the first time and isn’t sure she likes what she sees. 

“And why aren’t you dressed up, Rick?” She asks softly. “Tonight isn’t a good night to walk around with your true self on display.”

“How do you mean?” Rick asks, confused a little because it almost sounded like a warning.

“It’s Sawin,” Mrs. Portman explains, like she expects the word to mean anything to Rick. He’s not even sure he heard it right. “It’s the only night within the year when the veil between worlds is very thin. Those who came before us roam the Earth tonight, walking among us undiscovered. If they recognize you, they may lead you astray. It’s not so good to spend Sawin without a mask…”

“Umm, thank you for the advice,” Rick mutters. 

Mrs. Portman smiles at him kindly. “Well, no treats for you,” she informs regretfully. “No costume, no treat. You need to wear a mask next time.”

*

Leaving the children in Delilah is always difficult, but it’s never been more so than tonight after they return from trick-or-treating. Rick would love nothing better than to stay and spend the evening with them, sorting through their haul and helping them negotiate who likes what and what is considered a fair trade. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promises. “I’ll bring a very good friend along, and we’ll both help you with the candy. Can you wait that long?”

Judith is too tired to protest, really, but Carl thinks it carefully through. “Well, Grandma made lava cake. Can we have some tonight? We didn’t have dessert because there was gonna be candy…”

“I think lava cake is a great idea.”

When the kids give him sweet kisses on the cheeks for a good journey, Rick heads into the car to drive back to North Hanging, hating the town more with every mile he’s closer. He’s almost half of the way into the trip when he looks in the rearview mirror and notices there’s someone in the back seat.

“Lori,” he says softly.

To be honest, he remembers being scared shitless the first few times he saw his dead wife. It wasn’t the idea of seeing ghosts that terrified him, but of mental illness. He had small children to take care of, he had no business losing his damn mind. The therapist he eventually went to said it was normal and that what he was actually seeing was the manifestation of his own guilt, because he was not there for Lori when she needed him the most. Grateful, he believed it and then promptly resigned himself to being plagued with the vision for the rest of his life; he’ll always carry that guilt in him for as long as he lives.

Well, now he’s no longer so sure he’s just been seeing things after all. Daryl told him about ghosts, that they were real, and then Mrs. Portman warned him about the borders between the worlds of the living and the dead being thin tonight… And, well, there’s something about Halloween that makes such things so much more probable. Maybe his dead wife really is in the back seat right now. Why the hell not?

“You know, I miss you,” Rick tells her, because of course he does. Lori was his first love, his highschool sweetheart, and when she said  _ yes,  _ it was one of the best days of his life. He still loves her and always will. Falling in love again has nothing to do with it. His heart is big enough to love more than one person in a lifetime.

“THere’s this amazing man I met, Lori,” he confesses with a smile as he thinks about it. “He doesn’t know it yet, I haven’t said anything, but I love him. I’m going to tell him as soon as I find him. Because that’s the thing. He’s in danger. He was taken by some really evil men and I don’t know where they’re keeping him. I’m going to meet them now, you know? They think I’m gonna be one of them, but I’m not. I just hope they’ll lead me to him,” he pauses and sighs. “I wish you were still here. You’d have kicked those bad guys’ asses, wouldn’t you? You were always so fierce and protective…”

Lori - the ghost, the apparition, the hallucination, whatever she is - she actually smiles when Rick looks at her again in the mirror. She nods like she’s confirming that yes, she’s always ready to kick some asses and take names, and she opens her mouth, says something - but no words come out. 

Rick shakes his head. “Listen, I don’t know if you’re really here, but if you are, you gotta try something else. I can’t hear you. Maybe the veil just isn’t that thin.”

Lori rolls her eyes and says something that might be  _ “Figures,”  _ judging from the movement of her lips. She motions for Rick to pull over. He does - he can’t safely observe her and drive simultaneously, after all. Then Lori lifts her hands and starts to form letters with her fingers.    
“D… A… R… Y… Daryl, Daryls…. fine. Daryl’s fine? How do you know? How do you even know his name?” Rick asks in surprise.

Lori huffs impatiently and spells out, “SILO. GET HIM.”

“But there’s no entrance, I checked,” Rick mutters. 

“HIDDEN”

“Yeah well, how am I supposed to find it in the dark?” Rick asks without expecting an answer. “Anyway, I have a plan. Walsh and Negan - they’re the bad men - they invited me to this important thing of theirs in a bit, that’s where I’m headed. I think they want to sacrifice Daryl tonight.”

Lori’s quickly signed reply is, “NO SHIT SHERLOCK.”

“Well, I’m not letting them,” Rick assures. “I just need them to lead me to Daryl. Once he’s safe, I can arrest them all-”

“KILL THEM”

Lori had never looked so sure of something like she does right now as she lobbies for someone to be killed, and it’s absolutely bizarre. She used to be an avid opponent of the capital punishment back when she was alive. Apparently, death can do a lot to change someone’s perspective on such things. 

“If I have to,” Rick says, because he can’t make promises in that regard. “I’m a cop, Lori, not a murderer. I might have to kill someone before the night is over, but it’s not my first choice.”

“GOOD ENOUGH,” Lori signs and then disappears into thin air. She doesn’t show up for the remainder of the journey and yet, Rick’s fine. He never thought he’d get to see his wife again after she died, so this was entirely a pleasant development. 

And she seemed not to mind Rick’s new relationship with Daryl. 

As soon as he’s in North Hanging, Rick drops by at the house to pick up his gun just in case. He doesn’t want to risk going into a potentially dangerous situation unarmed. Not if he’s risking Daryl’s life in addition to his own. 

Then it’s almost time to head out if he wants to make it to the meeting with Walsh and whoever else might be there. On a whim, just before leaving the house, Rick puts on a mask. It’s from last year’s Halloween when he went trick-or-treating with his kids, Michonne, and her son. The mask depicts a snarling wolf head in realistic detail. Rick actually thinks it’s a mix between creepy and cheesy, but it’s the only mask he has and something about Mrs. Portman’s warning strikes a chord. Hell, he can’t be too protected. He’s going to meet some evil witches, after all.

It’s actually very easy to find the right place in the end, even in the dark. It’s almost embarrassing, like those guys aren’t even trying to conceal what they’re doing anymore. From a hiding place behind some conveniently placed bushes, Rick watches as a group of people gathers around a big truck with headlights on. It’s hard to recognize faces in these lighting conditions, but Rick doesn’t even have to bother trying: the people all report in to Negan at the front of the truck, loudly stating their names for anyone to hear.

So obviously, Walsh is there and ready. Mayor Blake and that Gareth dude from last night as well, and Joe the bartender. They are joined by some woman called Mary and yet another man, named Simon, who Rick thinks might own the liquor store across the street from the Flagon Wagon. Even the pastor reports in at one point, and Rick’s losing his faith in humanity.

“Seems your new friend Grimes isn’t fucking coming, Walsh,” Negan calls out. 

“Screw him, then,” Walsh replies carelessly. “Maybe he ain’t got the stomach for it. And Dwight? Where’s that ugly fucker?”

“Isn’t coming,” Negan admits. :Dude sort of hates me right now. Something about how I slept with his wife. Like there was any sleeping involved!”

The people in the group laugh like it’s the best joke they’ve ever heard. For some time, the only thing Rick hears is playful teasing banter, which is a waste of his time. Finally though, Blake addresses Walsh.

“Why don’t you go prepare the sacrifice? Since you’re the one who found him for us, you should be getting the honor.”

“I’ll go with,” Negan offers. “I’ve become fond of the guys, he’s gutsy. Pity we can’t keep him.”

“Awww, don’t you grow soft in your own age,” Joe mocks him, and the group laughs again. 

They all laugh some more, mostly about women, and Rick lets it slide for now because this whole situation reads a lot like a chance for something better. 

Finally, Walsh and Negan each grab handy little battery-powered flashlights and some unidentifiable stuff. The two then head towards the woods, choosing the only path which puts Rick directly in their way. He scrambles to his feet, attempting to lunge deeper into the bushes, when suddenly there’s light in his face and he thinks he must’ve been found - only for Walsh and Negan to pass him by like he wasn’t there at all.

Like he’s invisible.

“It’s a nice mask, Mister,” says a little girl who appears next to Rick out of the blue. She’s dressed in a nightgown and there’s a crown of wheat on her head. It takes Rick a moment to remember why she is familiar, but then he remembers her from the missing persons pictures in Paul’s computer. Mrs. Peletier’s daughter. 

“Sophia,” he says softly, mindful about the proximity of the two mean who unmistakably head towards the Leaky Mill. “How do I see you?”

“Your mask is magical,” Sophia explains like she’s divulging some great secret. “At least tonight it is.”

“Okay… do you know where Daryl is? About my height, wide shoulders, blue eyes,” he lists Daryl’s features as he remembers them.

“You don’t need to whisper, sir. You’re wearing the mask. They can’t see you. They can’t hear you,” the little girl informs him. “I’ll take you where you need to be,” she adds. “Come on, follow me. I know a shortcut.”

“To where Daryl is?” RIck demands. He needs to be sure he’s going to be led somewhere out there with no way to return. In fact, he knows he shouldn’t be letting Sophia dictate the conditions; for all he knows, the little girl is just the figment of his imagination. If anything, he should be following Negan and Walsh who are now fast disappearing in the darkness, even their flickering torches getting lost in the dark. He’s not sure why he’s still here, listening to a little girl’s ghost. 

Sophia sighs impatiently. “No, silly,” she says. “I’ll take you to where he dies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sawin" is basically what Samhain is pronounces as. Samhain is the Gaelic festival marking the end of harvest and the beginning of winter.


	9. Dear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts

Daryl dreams of his brother.

Since Merle returned from the war, dead but no less annoying than when he was alive, something in Daryl almost broke. Not because he lost his brother; in a sense, Merle was still there. But it was then that Daryl first realized he was completely alone. Nobody was left in the world who cared if he lived or died. No-one would pat him on the back, say they’re proud of him. He’d never get to experience the safety and warmth associated with family and friends. But Merle wasn’t completely gone, so he had at least  _ something  _ resembling kinship left. At least he’s still got one last remainder of what if feels like to have family, even if their’s has always been a strained relationship at best, even for siblings.

In his dreams, Merle’s there, but gone at the same time; not unlike a wraith, a vengeful spirit same like his mamma, but maybe something even worse. Something in Merle’s body, but without his soul, a mindless zombie driven by an instinct to hurt and devour. That Merle doesn’t know Daryl anymore, doesn’t care, doesn’t recognize anything. He’s a shell, an empty husk, and in the dream, Daryl tries to run from him, tries to run from the reality of him like that; but inevitably it always ends with Daryl putting his brother down in self defense. 

Now is not an exception, and he awakens with a start. 

He doesn’t want to fall asleep again, but it’s not easy in the darkness of the silo. He’s not cold anymore, though he’s probably not warm either; he’s been steadily becoming numb to the temperature. It doesn’t sound like a good thing, but, well, whatever. He’s not likely to make it through the night anyway, is he? Not with how everything’s been going. 

Lori disappeared at some point, but Beth didn’t leave Daryl’s side the whole time he’s been down here. She took it upon herself to keep Daryl awake by telling him stories about anything she can think of: Rick’s various adventures around the Greene farm, Maggie’s boyfriend woes, the last movie the whole family watched together on TV during the holidays. She even forces Daryl to interact, demanding replies as she notices him nodding off, and she even gets him to tell a few drowsy stories about Merle in return.

His latest story is suddenly interrupted when there’s a noise above, a hint of movement and then something falls a few feet from him. There’s some sort of a hissing sound, the air becomes thick with a sickly sweet smell and Daryl hears Beth shout something vaguely like, “Don’t breathe!” - but it’s too late. The gas has already filled his lungs and he feels dizzy, the spinning sensation in his head rising once again before overpowering him. 

So much for his great escape plans.

When he comes to, he’s somewhere outside and he’s being carried, slung over somebody’s shoulder. His wrists are tied together at his back and his head is pounding something fierce, like he’s having one hell of a hangover. At least he can see something now, though really, he’s not sure it’s an improvement. There are people walking all around him, marching forward towards some unknown destination. Some of them are carrying burning torches and Daryl fears, for a moment, that they’re going to burn him alive - but no. If that was their intention, if that was their way of doing things, it wouldn’t have been possible for Sophia to linger around her mother after she died. Burning the remains gets rid of the ghost, no exceptions.

So they’re going to kill him some other way. Very reassuring. Worst thing is, he’s got nobody to blame for but himself. After all, he as good as asked for this. 

Finally they arrive at the orchard Daryl found before. He half expects to be brought to the tree that stood out to him at that time, the one with all the apples picked; it seems a logical course of action. But instead, he’s dropped in front of the tree furthest from the path. It’s also picked clean, he notices idly, and he thinks he knows very well where those apples went. He’s really glad Lori warned him off of eating them.

He’s roughly dragged to the very base of the tree, his back against the bark so he sits on the cool, damp earth facing his soon-to-be murderers. The man handling him turns out to be none other than Deputy Bastard Walsh - Daryl  _ fucking knew  _ the guy was involved in this whole damn business - and he can make out many familiar faces in the crowd, none of which really comes as a surprise. Walsh ties him to the tree, and the ropes which go around Daryl’s chest leave him with almost no breathing room. He curses under his breath, the first sign he’s shown of being conscious, and Walsh grins like some creep. He reaches down to pat Daryl’s cheek.

“Well, well, well,” he says. “Look who’s up. You make one ugly princess, Dixon.”

“Fuck you,” Daryl spits out.

Walsh just laughs, amused by his anger. “It’s unbelievable, Dixon, really. Someone like you, finally doin’ something for the good of this town. Couldn’t even hate you now, could I? Hell, I should be thanking you.”

“Yer all a buncha sick fucks,” Daryl hisses. He tries to move, to loosen the ropes, anything at all, but nothing works. He’s trapped, he’s all alone, and he’s really going to die.

“You done with the taunts?” Asks Negan. The fucker’s wearing Daryl’s jacket, he’s almost sure of it, or as sure as he can be in the torchlight. Fucking dickhead. It doesn’t look half as good on him as it does on Daryl.

“Yeah, I’m done,” Walsh announces, smirking in arrogant satisfaction. Daryl would feed his left nut to rabid dogs just to be able to punch him right now.

But he’s not given a chance to punch anyone. Negan grabs him by the hair and pulls his head back, then someone else pinches his nose, and Daryl gasps loudly for air. At the same moment, liquid is poured in his mouth, and Daryl sputters and chokes, and ends up swallowing some of it before the grip on his hair is released. Apple juice, thick and sweet like poison. They fed him apple juice because they know he didn’t eat the apples.

“It’s almost midnight,” Blake announces over the sound of Daryl coughing. “Is the offering ready?”

“Just one more thing,” says Mary Hawkins, the librarian. She steps forward from behind her son Gareth, and she brushes some hair out of Daryl’s face in an almost maternal gesture. She places a crown of dried grass on top of his head, adjusts it and smiles up at the mayor. “Now he’s ready.”

Blake nods, and takes a place right next to the tree while the others stand in a half-circle, faces turned towards Daryl. He never liked drawing attention, so this is a fucking nightmare. He hopes they all choke. 

The mayor waits for everyone to settle before he starts speaking. “My friends,” he addresses his group of fellow psychos. “We are gathered here once again to fulfil our holy duty. For the tenth year in a row, in celebration of the glorious night of Samhain-”

“‘s pronounces  _ Sauin, _ ya ignorant fuck,” Daryl interjects loud enough for the whole group to hear. If he’s going to be killed for these people’s sick entertainment, he’s at least going to make it as hard on them as he can before he goes. 

“The glorious night of  **Samhain** ,” Blake repeats pointedly, unwilling to acknowledge his own mistake. Not that it’s anything new, he was always too self-important to admit he could be wrong. He looks irritated for a moment though, like he lost a trail of thought, and Daryl feels a sliver of dark satisfaction. 

Then, Blake continues. “Out town was founded where once stood a great city of an ancient civilization which has left these lands long before our ancestors settled here. Over the course of hundreds of years, it has suffered injustice and hurt unlike any other place in this world. And yet, after all that, it still stands proudly to nurture its inhabitants and protect us from harm. Tonight, we are given the chance to offer our gratitude. Brothers and sisters, are you ready to make the ultimate sacrifice to the spirits of our great predecessors so that they may continue to protect our town for another year?”

“I am,” says Walsh, loud and proud, and throws a handful of - sand? - at Daryl who sneezes and glares at him. Not sand. Cinnamon. Nutmeg, too, ginger, all that stuff for pumpkin spice. The fuck. 

“I am,” claims Negan, and another handful of finely ground spices is thrown in Daryl’s face. Then another, and again, to the chorus of a dozen “I am”s. 

“Well I fuckin’ ain’t,” he protests, trying to blink the powder from his eyes, and he’s completely ignored. When everyone present is done declaring their readiness to become a murdering psycho, Blake steps even closer to Daryl. There’s something shiny in his hand now which he retrieved from who knows where. It catches the light from the torches and reflects the flickering flames. A sickle.

“Then, on the night of Samhain, I offer this life to the spirits in hopes that they will bless our town in return,” the mayor announces and pulls Daryl’s head to the side by the hair, baring his throat. “May another year prove bountiful to us all,” he adds, and, following some sort of scripted ceremonial choreography, he lifts the sickle-

-which falls to his feet after a shot resounds in the night. Within a few seconds, Blake’s body collapses and Daryl can see the blood pooling from the mayor’s right eye. He’s dead as he hits the ground, and time seems to stand still as everyone stares at the corpse, trying to comprehend what just happened. 

And then they all start moving, searching for the attacker who dared interrupt their crazy ritual. In the commotion, Daryl feels like he can suddenly breathe better and he realizes the ropes tying him to the tree are gone. Beth touches his face and says, “Lean forward,” and Daryl does, confused. Then somehow, his wrists are free and he can move his arms, and Beth just smirks the most mysterious little smile.

Daryl has no time to thank her, though, because the scene which unfolds captures his entire attention. The shooter stands calmly some fifteen feet from him, obviously invisible to the crowd even though he’s clearly visible to Daryl. He might be a ghost, or he might be something else; whatever that is, Walsh and the others pass right next to him none the wiser. There’s a soft blue glow surrounding the shooter, and he’s wearing a wolf mask - or maybe he’s some sort of a demon, the protector of the forest, or, well, anything. It’s too difficult to tell, and Daryl realizes he can’t afford to stare and wonder about it just yet.

He notices Gareth trying to sneak up on him almost too late, and the creep’s knife grazes his arm. He hisses and dives for the sickle Blake dropped, and he swings it just in time to bury it in Gareth’s neck. Mary’s anguished scream alerts him to her attack, and Daryl really hates to do it, but he tears the sickle out of Gareth’s throat and slashes at Mary to ward her off. It works partially; the woman drops the weapon she was trying to attack him with - an ice pick? A stick? He can’t tell, it’s dark - and she throws herself bodily at Daryl, reaching to his neck with her hands in an attempt to choke him. Daryl manages to push her off and she falls backwards, hits her head on the trunk of the apple tree and slides to the ground. 

That’s three down, ten more to go. 

“Daryl,” the shooter calls out and Daryl freezes, heartbeat increasing wildly in his chest. The voice, distorted somewhat by the mask or by the distance, but still clear enough, belongs to Rick. And they still don’t see him, and he’s definitely not some otherwordly demon, so it must mean he’s a ghost, and he’s dead. He’s dead. 

He doesn’t seem so dead, though, when he strikes out at Joe, hitting the barman with the handle of the gun. Daryl hasn’t even seen the man sneaking up on him with a knife, and he sends Rick a glance full of gratitude he hopes is understood. 

He notices the quick movement has knocked the wolf mask askew, revealing Rick’s face, and those previously blind to his presence seem to be able to see him all of a sudden. .

“You,” Walsh exclaims, approaching the man with all of the grace of a roaring bull. “You’re a liar, Grimes!”

“Sure,” Rick agrees, taking a step back, measuring, not afraid. It’s like he’s planning his next move, anticipating what his enraged opponent will do next. 

“Why would you choose some good for nothin’ piece of trash over your brother, huh?” Walsh demands. “You could’ve been a part of this town, Grimes, you could’ve amounted to something, but here you go, siding with a  _ Dixon  _ over us!”

Rick sidesteps Walsh’s clumsy attempt at a punch easily, and he walks right into the man’s personal space, unafraid. He presses the barrel of his gun into the other deputy’s chest. He looks over Walsh’s shoulder at Daryl, smiles and says, “Well, that’s because I love him,” and then he pulls the trigger.

The rest of the fight erupts into chaos. Daryl utilizes the sickle and Joe’s knife, defending himself from grabbing hands which he’s not entirely sure all belong to humans. There are too many to just be his would-be-murderers; suddenly, the orchard is full of vaguely human-shaped silhouettes which throw themselves at Daryl with the ferocity of starving animals. Daryl slashes at them and it seems to be working for a time, the sickle draws blood from the living and the dead alike; but where one falls, two others arise and they come at Daryl without hesitation, claws and teeth and the cold breath of death. 

Beth attempts to help, but Daryl pushes her away, throws a command to her and Sophia both that they hide and don’t come out until it’s safe; he grabs a still burning torch from the ground and swings it around like a damn sword. Fire cleanses and vengeful spirits have this instinctual fear of flames, like they know what it means even though it cannot hurt their spiritual forms. That fear is what Daryl bets upon as he uses the torch, and it pays off when he pushes through the mass of writhing ghosts to reach Rick. 

Rick has readjusted his mask at some point to fully cover his face again, and as Daryl approaches him he thinks he can see the wolf snarl even though he knows it’s not possible. He stands there, petrified for a second as he watches Rick shoot a wraith in the head like it’s an everyday sort of fight for him, and he realizes with a tug at his heart that he can never let this man go, no matter what.

“Love you too,” he says because he needs to, because it’s a priority that Rick knows this. 

The deputy shoots another specter and then grasps Daryl’s hand, squeezes his fingers and lets go. Daryl understands. There’s no time for more romantic grand gestures right now, but the brief warmth of Rick’s fingers touching his feels like a promise for later.

If they survive.

“We should get outta here,” Rick says, loud enough to be heard over the wailing of the spirits around them. “Also, happy birthday,” he adds in a sarcastic tone.

Daryl blinks, then remembers that Rick thankfully doesn’t know a thing about Jesus, Daryl’s naughty video and the favor he paid the hacker for with that video. He says, “My birthday’s in freakin’ February,” and he doesn’t even try to keep the smirk of satisfaction off his face.

If he lives through tonight - if Rick, does, as well - Daryl’s going to send Jesus a very grateful thank you note. And then he’s never going to ask the guy another favor ever again.

Rick looks incredibly confused for a moment, seems like he wants to ask about it, but he’s interrupted when a terrible scream resounds across the fields. It appears to be coming from the direction of the woods and Daryl’s first instinct is to jump in front of Rick to protect him from whatever’s causing that noise. But then he recognizes the voice, even with the strange distortion like it’s coming from behind a thick glass wall, and he tightens the grip on his weapons; because the voice is Negan’s, and it’s horrified and painful all at once, no mistake about it, and though Daryl hates that man with all he’s got, he can’t help but shiver at the anguish he’s sure signifies the moment of Negan’s demise. 

And then the strangest thing happens.

One by one, the violent spirits disappear into thin air. Within but seconds, only Rick, Daryl, Beth and Sophia remain in the abandoned orchard, everyone else gone with the last notes of the echoing scream. Blake’s body isn’t where it fell when Rick killed him. Walsh’s is gone as well, and Gareth’s, and there’s no trace of Mary where she collapsed against the apple tree after Daryl knocked her out. There’s nobody else there, living or dead. The dropped torches and weapons are nowhere in sight, not even those Daryl had used to ward off the wraiths. The orchard is eerily silent, and if not for the bleeding gash on Daryl’s shoulder, he’d almost believe he dreamt up everything that just went down here.

He looks at the trees, and in front of his eyes, the two picked clean of apples go into full bloom. Like in a fast forwarded video, the blossoms wither and fall. The tree sprouts leaves, then grows apples which ripen into a dark red blush, and it all happens within a few blinks of the eye. 

Behind Daryl, Rick whispers, “Beth,” and reaches out to touch the girl’s hand like he’s trying to check if she’s real.

She says, “I know,” and Daryl thinks he can hear the tears in her voice. “I know you tried so hard to find me. It’s not your fault, Rick. You didn’t fail me.”

“Beth, I’m so sorry,” Rick says. 

“It’s okay,” Beth reassures.

And then it’s past midnight, and Halloween is over. 

Rick takes Daryl’s hand in a firm grip, holds it as tightly as he can. “I saw Beth, Daryl,” he whispers. “She’s gone now, but I saw her. She’s really dead, isn’t she? You were telling the truth from the start.”

“Wish it were different,” Daryl mutters. He looks at Beth who’s touching Rick’s arm in a comforting gesture he can’t really feel as anything other than cold breeze. She smiles at him and shrugs. 

“It is what it is,” she says. “You take care of him now, okay? And let him take care of you. When you two are fine, I’ll still be there if you want to talk about it.”

And she vanishes, likely gone to the farm to bother the chickens or hover around some sleeping farmhands, or whatever it is ghosts do in their spare time. Daryl looks at Sophia, then, who smiles shyly. 

“Did I do good?” She asks.

Daryl knows the answer is yes, but still he requests that she clarifies: “How’d ya mean?” 

“I brought Mister Rick to you,” the little girl explains with no small amount of pride.

“Well then, ya did real good,” Daryl decides. “I owe ya, lil’ lady.”

“I’m gonna go back to mommy now,” Sophia announces, and disappears before Daryl can reply. It’s okay. He’s used to ghosts being ill-mannered. He’s been living with Merle, after all. 

“It happens often?” Rick asks softly. “You talking to ghosts.”

“Not usually,” Daryl mutters. “Five, six a year maybe. This is the first time I got more ‘n one at the same time. ‘s been a handful,” he shrugs. Then he turns and lifts a hand to brush it against the plastic of Rick’s wolf mask. It looked so real before, but now he can clearly tell it’s just a good quality Halloween prop. Whatever magic it carried that gave Rick the advantage it did, that didn’t come from the mask itself. Daryl thinks it must’ve been something within Rick’s own spirit, but he doesn’t suppose he will ever find out.

Maybe it’s better this way.

He removes the mask with a soft exhale. “No need for it no more,” he whispers.

Rick looks at him with a smile. His eyes reflect the moonlight in a way that reminds Daryl of a spirit, and yet the rest of the man is completely, wonderfully corporeal and so obviously alive. He’s so incredibly beautiful right now. He looks at Daryl like he’s something precious, something to be treasured, and Daryl can almost believe that he is.

“I love you,” he murmurs, because now that the immediate danger is gone, he feels like it bears repeating. In case Rick missed it that first time. In case he forgot.

“Marry me,” Rick asks in reply. “Don’t gotta be right now, but in the future. When you’re ready. I want to have you forever, and to be yours.”

“Okay,” Daryl agrees, and it comes as easy as breathing to lean in and steal a quick kiss from Rick’s pretty, pouty lips. He wishes they could do more, but it doesn’t feel right, not here. They need to go. They need to leave this place and never, ever come back.

He drops the wolf mask to the ground, where he feels it belongs now. When he looks down, he can’t find it in the damp grass.

As they head through the fields towards the town, holding hands and still wielding weapons - just in case - Rick breaks the silence by saying,

“I should probably report this in.”

“An’ say what?” Daryl scoffs. “They’s gone. Don’t think we’re gonna hafta worry ‘bout ‘em again.”

“We can’t just ignore that some dozen people disappeared overnight, though,” Rick protests. “We’re not even sure they’re all gone. And I fired my gun, I’ll have to explain that.”

“Did ya really?” Daryl asks.

Rick looks at him strangely, then at the gun, apparently about to point out how the weapon was obviously fired. But then he notices that the safety was on the whole time, and the weight probably suggests what Daryl knows to be true: not a single one out of six bullets is missing from the cylinder. He didn’t shoot any bullets tonight. His gun wasn’t fired. At least, not in the world of the living.

“Let’s just go home, get some rest,” Daryl suggests, squeezing Rick’s fingers. The other man looks at their joined hands, barely able to make out anything in the darkness which grows less oppressive the closer they are to the town, and he sighs. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “We’ll just deal with whatever happens when it happens.”

And that’s exactly what they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left... Happy Halloween everyone!


	10. Ghost Love Score

Octobers in Virginia are quite different than what Daryl’s used to. His whole life before, all thirty years of it, he never once left Georgia. He just didn’t have anywhere to go, and North Hanging was his home in spite of the townspeople who clearly didn’t like him much. And yet, here he is.

For almost a year now, his home has been a big, roomy house in a white picket fence neighborhood in the suburbs of Alexandria, Virginia, which he shares with two children, their father, a dog named Dog and a cat called Cat. He still thinks he fits there about as well as a punch to the face, but he’s adjusting. He’s adjusting.

Rick properly proposed on his birthday, back in February, and Daryl said yes, and he still lies awake at night sometimes, tracing the gold band around his ring finger, reminding himself he’s married. He’s a husband now. He’s someone’s. Rick’s. He’s Rick’s. And Carl’s, and Judith’s, and even Dog’s and Cat’s. He belongs, and it’s the first time in his life he feels that. 

“You’re the one I was waiting for,” Lori told him on the day of the wedding, and it was her goodbye. She didn’t hug him, she wasn’t much of a hugger, but she held his hand and smiled, and she made him promise he’d always be there for Rick and the children. 

“Or I’ll come back to haunt you,” she warned playfully.

Daryl chuckled, and promised. “I’d do anything, I’d die for ‘em,” he said, too solemn, but it was the truth.

Lori swatted him on the back of the head. “Don’t,” she demanded. “You have to be with them now, because I can’t. If you die, I’m going to be very upset with you.”

She never showed up again, and when Daryl told Rick about the conversation later, Rick listened, and took Daryl in his arms, and cried; it was the last time he grieved his wife, and after almost four years, he finally let her go. 

They hanged a picture of her in the living room. On it, she was dressed in a pretty blue dress, completely unlike the hospital gown she was stuck in as a ghost. Even if the dress was actually a little too small - Rick said so, it didn’t show in the picture at all - at least her butt was definitely completely covered. Daryl thought she’d appreciate it.

*

The children, they took to Daryl like they were his own. He never thought he’d be any good with kids, he only ever had experience with young _ ghosts, _ but apparently, his lack of knowledge about how to handle them didn’t mean anything to Carl and Judith. That first day when Rick brought Daryl to the house of Lori’s parents and sat him down on the living room floor among the scattered bucketfuls of candy, Judith decided Daryl was her new favorite thing. She immediately climbed on his lap and made him sort through the candies for her.

“I want toffees,” she announced, and Daryl dutifully started picking through the sweets to find what she demanded.

Carl stared at him a moment, then shrugged. “I’ll take anything with coconut,” he informed everyone. When Judith didn’t protest, Daryl helped the boy gather the coconut candies and put them in one big pile. 

“What do you like, Daree?” Judith asked. 

Daryl looked up at Rick, who smiled. “He’ll eat anything as long as it’s sweet,” the man said warmly, and a grown-ass guy really had no business being that cute, but there he was. 

“‘s not true,” Daryl protested, resisting the urge to lean over and kiss Rick on the lips. Doing that in front of the children and their grandparents probably wasn’t a good idea, and anyway, rewarding him for teasing would’ve been silly. 

In the end, Judith shared some of her toffees with him; his attempts at refusing were completely ignored. The little girl was stubborn just like her daddy and absolutely didn’t take no for an answer. Carl didn’t go so far as to give him his favorite candy, but he did offer Daryl a few pieces of his giant Cadbury chocolate block, which was much bigger a sign of acceptance from the boy than either Daryl or Rick could’ve hoped for.

Lori’s parents took a longer time to warm up to him, understandably, especially since Rick didn’t even try to hide what Daryl was to him from the beginning. Eventually, Janice and George accepted that their daughter’s husband moved on, and a few months later they came all the way to Virginia for the wedding. Janice told them she thought it was too soon, but it didn’t stop her offering to take care of the children while the newlyweds had their honeymoon. 

* 

Beth was at the wedding, too. 

That night when Daryl and Rick came back from the fields, dirty and tired and just glad to be alive, they went to Rick’s house. Rick fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, but Daryl couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to, maybe. Sleep felt too much like being dead, and his head was full of thoughts, and he just… couldn’t. Couldn’t sleep, not yet.

So he sat on the swing on the porch and stared into the night, thinking about everything, or nothing, or both. At some point, Beth reappeared and sat with him. She tried to move an empty milk bottle by the door, but her hand went right through each time. When she was able to loosen the ropes holding Daryl earlier that night, she probably saved his life just as much as Rick did. Daryl just wished he could’ve done the same for her.

“I think I’ll have to wait for next year’s Halloween if I want to play,” Beth sighed and sat down on the stairs. Daryl never wondered how she was able to sit on any surface, before. She couldn’t touch objects, but sitting on them wasn’t a problem. How did that work? It was illogical. Then again, ghosts weren’t ever logical in the first place.

“Beth,” Daryl said. At that point, he still didn’t tell her about the body he’d found before Negan knocked him out. He didn’t know how to tell her. It would’ve been easier if she’d actually been murdered, then at least she’d have been avenged. But that, the way she’d died… So pointless. So… sad. So fucking, incredibly sad.

“I know what you’re thinking, Daryl Dixon,” the girl said and offered him a smile, one of those bright smiles she’d given him earlier when recalling some good memories of her family. But there was something in her eyes alongside that smile, something wistful. 

She said, “I know what you found in that shack. I saw it, too. When that horrible man attacked you, I had to try and help you, and then I saw it. And I remember everything.”

Daryl didn’t know how to react to that, other than to apologize - but what good was an apology? It didn’t matter. Regardless of how it happened, Beth was already dead. Apologies wouldn’t return her to life. Nothing ever could.

“You need to tell my daddy,” Beth told him. “They’ll be sad, for a while, they’ll grieve, but eventually, they’ll be fine. They’re going to bury me. It’s important to them. They’re Christians, they need to know that my body was laid to rest so I can go to Heaven.”

“Ain’t it better to hope an’ never know?” Daryl asked softly.

Beth shook her head. “A wound you reopen again and again cannot begin to heal,” she said. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy on them, because it won’t. But time dulls the pain. That’s what Maggie told me, you know? About what it was like after her mom died. It never really goes away, it never stops feeling unfair, but if you let it, the wound will eventually fade.”

“I hate bein’ like this,” Daryl whispered, helpless and tired. “Seein’ ghosts, doin’ favors, but never really fuckin’ helpin’ anyone. In the end, nothin’ I do really matters. Y’all still dead.”

“You stopped an evil cult,” Beth pointed out. “And you found me. You put yourself in danger, but you found me. I was dead long before you knew who I was. It’s not something you can change. It’s not something you get to blame yourself for.”

Daryl didn’t say anything because what was there to say? He still felt guilty, regardless of what Beth hoped to accomplish, and she understood it. 

“You and your big heart, Daryl Dixon,” she said, and reached out to touch his ankle. 

Her cold touch was more reassuring than the words. It continued to reassure him as Daryl told Hershel Greene about his daughter’s fate. Rick was there, too, a silently comforting presence by Daryl’s side, warm hand on his shoulder, and both, they helped him get it done. He spoke calmly even as his eyes welled up with tears and his hands tightened into fists; Hershel’s solemn, grateful _ thank you for finding her _made him want to scream. Because he found her too late, he didn’t do anything worth thanking for, he didn’t help shit-

But Hershel thanked him all the same, and Daryl didn’t scream, not then, not until he was alone with Rick; and the man held him afterwards, kissed the tears away and promised it was okay. It wasn’t, it wouldn’t be for a long time yet, but Daryl didn’t tell him that.

They went to Beth’s funeral, and it was sad and awkward all at the same time. 

And Beth came to their wedding. 

Even though her unfinished business was technically finished by then, she decided she wasn’t in any hurry to move on; she stayed with her family on the farm, lingered to watch over them like their very own guardian angel, and she practiced touching objects until one day, she managed to knock over a bucket of fresh milk, scaring the hell out of the poor farmhand who saw it. She showed up in Alexandria to tell Daryl about her great accomplishment, and he laughed like it was the greatest joke he’d ever heard.

*

Carol didn’t stay in Georgia after everything, either. She handed her resignation from the school and put most of her savings into a trip around the world. 

“I waited for a man to save me for so long,” she explained after telling Daryl she was leaving. “It’s time I took my life into my own hands.”

Sophia went with her, though of course Carol didn’t know about it. The little girl, like Beth, decided to linger on with her mommy. 

“I need to protect her,” she explained with a little smile. “And I want to see mommy wear a beautiful dress when she marries the king. She’s going to be a queen, you know.”

Daryl didn’t know what that meant, but he hoped Carol would find her happiness eventually.

He never got around to telling her about him and Rick. There just wasn’t a good time. He realized at some point that the man she’d been waiting for was him, and he wondered how long he was unknowingly stringing her along. Telling her he was gay seemed like an unnecessary cruelty, and then it didn’t matter anymore because she was leaving. 

She called him once, two months after they parted ways. She sounded excited when she said, “I’m going cage diving with the sharks in an hour. Real sharks!”

To Daryl, that didn’t sound like something to be excited about. Terrified, sure, but not excited. But Carol told him all about the shark-related tourism in the region of South Africa she was currently visiting, and the handsome shark researcher she met there who offered to take her cage diving, and how it was going to be amazing - and Daryl learned the researcher’s name was Ezekiel King.

So that’s what Sophia meant.

Then Carol sent him and Rick a card for the wedding, and Daryl never found out how she knew. But she was always clever, that woman, even when they were both just kids from bad homes they didn’t want to go back to. She probably saw it between him and Rick as soon as she saw them together; and the date of the wedding, well. She found out somehow. 

Maybe Jesus told her.

*

Jesus, or Paul Rovia, or whoever he was; he disappeared before Rick came back to the station to hand in his resignation. Nobody could tell Rick where the IT guy went off to, and as it turned out, the department didn’t even have an IT support technician on payroll. The workstation the man used to be at was empty, there wasn’t even a single computer there. All Rick found was a cardboard box with a note, _ For Daryl Dixon, to his eyes only. _

He brought it to Daryl, who opened it alone just in case it was something dangerous. It wasn’t, not really; the box contained all of the naughty pictures and the videotape he’d made for Jesus over the years. They were all still in the sealed envelopes he sent them in, with the exception of those he’d uploaded over the Internet back when he had a laptop, those were all on a flash drive. 

There was a short letter in the box. It said, _ I won’t be needing these anymore, but I don’t know how to destroy them. I’m not very fond of fire. Why don’t you burn them for me? Think of me as you do. And if you need a favor again, don’t worry, I’ll help for free. You’re spoken for now, after all. I hope your man knows how lucky he is to land the most gorgeous guy in the world. _

_ Don’t try to find me. You won’t. I’ve been around for longer than you think. I know how to hide from people like you. It’s a big world. _

It was signed, _ Love, Jesus. _

Beneath all the photos, at the bottom of the box, there was a copy of a death certificate. It was issued almost twenty years ago for a man called Paul Rovia, who was twenty-six when he died and who lived somewhere in DC. It took Daryl a moment to realize what it meant.

A ghost. Jesus - Paul the IT guy - he was a ghost all along.

Daryl went to DC on the anniversary of his death in June. Finding the right cemetery wasn’t easy, but Rick’s old friend from the force helped. The grave was nice, with a little tree overlooking it. Daryl put some flowers by the headstone, and a photo. But it wasn’t a naughty one. He thought, maybe Jesus would like to know he was happy now. Maybe Jesus would like to see his family. So the photo Daryl left him was one taken on Judith’s birthday party that April. It was a picture Janice took of Rick trying to feed Daryl a spoonful of whipped cream, with Judith sitting on Daryl’s shoulders and Carl next to them, reading a new comic book. In the background, unbeknownst to them at that time, Dog was eating the birthday cake and Cat was scratching the sofa. 

Daryl still really likes that picture.

*

Merle sort of moved with them. He doesn’t really live in the house with Daryl’s new family, he prefers the small lean-to above the garage where he can do whatever he wants. He’s not always there, and he’s not always nice, which is just how Merle’s always been. Daryl doesn’t think he’s ever going to get rid of his brother, but it’s fine. Merle might be a dick, but he’s family, and anyway, he’s a war hero. There are damn medals to prove that. Daryl keeps them on display in the living room, because he’s proud of his older brother, even if the single act of heroism in the fucker’s life got him killed. 

It’s nice, to be proud of his family instead of being embarrassed. 

And Merle likes the kids, it turned out. He can’t exactly interact with them in the usual ways, they don’t see him, but whenever they’re somewhere he hovers at, he does the little tricks he’s learned over the time he’s been dead. He makes the lights flicker in the rhythm of a nursery rhyme, he has the TV turn on to a cartoon channel, he makes Judith’s teddy bears fly and Carl’s remote-controlled car move even though it’s got no batteries. At first, the children were afraid, but Daryl and Rick explained that it’s the way their Uncle Merle is playing with them. 

“Just say _ I don’t want to play, Uncle Merle, _and he’ll stop,” Daryl promises. 

It never comes to that. Once they know it’s nothing that’s going to harm them, the children actually start playing back. Judith dances to the flickering lights and chases the floating teddy bears, Carol races the car moving on its own with another he has that has batteries. When Merle plays them cartoons, the kids comment on them and teach Merle to respond with _ flickering light for yes, jumping teddy bear for no. _ It works. 

“We’ve got a ghost babysitter,” Rick notes one day, and Daryl laughs at this description of Merle.

But he’s glad, because he’s seen his brother with the children, and he doesn’t think Merle was ever this happy while he was alive.

*

It’s October now, and the nights are getting cooler than Daryl’s used to. He sleeps in pajamas now; he doesn’t think he ever owned a single set of pajamas before, but now he does, and it makes him feel… strange. Sort of like he’s living somebody else’s life these days, but also not. He’s got a job nowadays, at the local garage owned by a dude called Aaron Raleigh who’s also gay and married to a man. They’re kind of friends, maybe. Daryl still finds it difficult to forge friendships, but he’s working on it. 

He’s adjusting.

He hasn’t seen any new ghosts since that Halloween night a year ago. Sophia is gone with her mommy, or maybe just gone, he doesn’t know. Beth drops by sometimes, bringing news of North Hanging and the shenanigans she gets up to as her haunting prowess continues to grow. She no longer plays her mischief on the Greene farm and instead goes out of her way to make life difficult to the people in town. Nowadays, it’s becoming deserted after Mr. Ford closed down the factory and went back to Texas to be with his kids. Daryl vindictive sort of satisfaction when he hears about it. 

The bodies of the dozen townspeople who tried to sacrifice Daryl were never found. The local police department searched for them for a while, but nobody thought to connect the mass disappearance to Rick’s resignation and his and Daryl’s subsequent, hurried relocation to another state. It was like everyone quickly forgot about them whatsoever, and Daryl can’t say he’s unhappy about that. The less he has to worry about North Hanging, the better. 

“You’re awful quiet tonight,” Rick notes, wrapping an arm around Daryl’s middle. They’re reclining on the living room sofa, wearing their pajamas, sharing a single giant blanket. The kids are upstairs in their bedrooms, fast asleep; Daryl’s sure of it because he stayed with each of them, telling their bedtime stories until they nodded off. They have this routine now, where Daryl has the bedtime duties but Rick takes care of the mornings because out of the four of them, he’s the only one capable of waking up before noon without being forcefully dragged out of bed. He also makes food. Daryl doesn’t cook anymore, not after that one time when he almost burned the kitchen. It’s a long story, and only half his fault. 

He really reminisces a lot tonight.

“Must be ‘cause ‘s so close to Halloween,” he says, leaning into Rick’s embrace. Rick nuzzles his neck, tickling him with his beard, and Daryl giggles, though he’d never admit to making that sound. 

“Love it when you laugh,” Rick murmurs, kissing down his neck and shoulder.

Daryl shivers. “Stop it, you old hornball,” he mutters, blushing. The expletive makes no sense because Rick’s younger than him by four years and neither of them can be considered old by any means, and all it does is make Rick chuckle into his skin.

“Mm, it’s your fault if I’m horny all the time,” the man says. “You’re too sexy in this pajamas, darlin’.”

“Yer ridiculous,” Daryl huffs. His pajamas is a pair of plain black pants and a long-sleeve loose top with _ Sleepyhead _written across the chest in bold white letters. Nothing about it is even remotely sexy. It’s just comfy. 

“You’re beautiful,” Rick counters, and his hand which was resting on Daryl’s side slides under his shirt. The touch to his bare skin makes Daryl shiver. It’s been a few days since they had a chance to be intimate; Lori’s parents were visiting until this morning and it was too awkward to attempt to have sex with an ever-vigilant Janice in the house. So Daryl’s actually very happy with his husband’s playful seduction, even if he’s playing hard to get. 

It always gets Rick even hotter when Daryl pretends he has to be won over. 

It’s difficult to resist him when he knows so well how to drive Daryl helpless with want; a few kisses and nips to the sensitive spots on Daryl’s neck and jaw, a pinch on the nipple, a deep and demanding kiss on the mouth, and Daryl gives in, groans softly and lets Rick spread him on the sofa, press him into the cushions and kiss him senseless. 

“Need ya,” he whispers against Rick’s lips and Rick smiles before he begins to undress him. It’s risky, doing this here instead of in their bedroom, but the thought of doing something forbidden only turns Daryl on all the more; he spreads his legs to accommodate Rick and thrusts up against him, moaning breathlessly into his mouth at the friction. 

“So impatient, darlin’,” Rick says and tugs the pajama bottoms down Daryl’s hips and off one leg, leaving him almost naked while he’s still fully dressed, if a t-shirt and sweats counts as such. 

“Fuck me,” Daryl demands in reply, and he loves the way Rick groans and takes his own clothes off in quick motions. They rarely do it this way; with two young kids, there’s usually no time for careful preparation and everything, but Daryl’s in a mood and, well, he wants. He _ needs _ to feel Rick, completely and fully, to remember that he belongs to this man just as he belongs to Daryl. And Rick, he senses that desperate need or maybe he simply feels the same, because he gives up on teasing and he retrieves a bottle of lube from the small chest next to the sofa, the one the children don’t know how to get to just yet. 

“I love you so much, baby,” he whispers as the first one of his fingers breaches Daryl’s entrance, works him open in slow, shallow strokes. It’s been a while, so he’s extra patient, but Daryl isn’t; he makes a frustrated noise, something between a growl and a whine, and Rick chuckles as he presses two fingers inside him, pushes them deeper and spreads them wider. 

Daryl’s so hard he thinks he’s feeling lightheaded. He moves his hips to meet the slow motions of the fingers inside of him, to force them deeper maybe, and Rick gets it, he understands tonight isn’t for gentle lovemaking. He adds the third finger maybe sooner than he normally would have, and he makes sure there’s a lot of lube before he removes the fingers entirely. Daryl whimpers at the loss, or maybe at the promise of more to come, and he barely holds in a moan when Rick positions himself and shoves his cock in him in one quick thrust which has him buried to the hilt. Daryl wraps his arms around Rick’s shoulders, his legs around Rick’s hips, and he holds onto him as Rick starts rocking slowly in and out; it’s good, it’s so fucking good, Daryl doesn’t know if he can hold on too long. He kisses Rick hard, muffling his desperate, needy moans against his husband’s mouth, and Rick picks up the pace, fucks him deeper, hitting that spot inside him every few thrusts. 

It’s almost too much, the pressure building inside of him, and Daryl can’t think, can’t breathe. He buries a hand in Rick’s hair, pulls him impossibly closer because he wants Rick all over him, all around him, all inside him; his cock throbs, untouched, but he doesn’t need it touched, he can feel he’s close already. Just Rick kissing him, fucking him, it’s enough, it’s everything he needs, it’s everything, just a little more, a bit-

Rick pulls out, but Daryl doesn’t get the chance to protest before he’s flipped onto his stomach and Rick presses inside of him again. He moans, too loud, too lewd, and Rick covers his mouth with one hand as he wraps an arm around his chest. His other hand rests on Daryl’s hip as he begins to thrust hard and fast, and the change of angle makes it so he hits that spot each time, and Daryl can’t help it, he lets out all those noises muffled by Rick’s hand over his mouth, and he pushes back to meet Rick’s thrusts, and then-

“So beautiful, love, so amazin’... you feel so good, darlin’, love you so much,” Rick groans into his ear, and his voice is so deep and so breathy, and Daryl can’t hold it in anymore; the feeling of Rick inside him, filling him so good and hard, and the sound of that voice against his skin, the words so dirty and yet so sweet, it’s too much, it’s overwhelming, it’s- it’s-

“Rick,” he breathes into the palm of his husband’s hand, and his whole body shudders and tightens as a wave of intense pleasure rolls over him, almost causing him to black out. He barely registers Rick whispering more honey-coated words as his movements still and his breathing hitches, and then he feels the warmth of Rick’s come spilling inside of him. 

They should’ve used a condom, but fuck if he cares about what a bitch it’s gonna be to clean up later. Rick’s weight on top of him is a comfort he’s craved all of his life, he thinks, and Rick’s lips pressing gentle kisses to the nape of his neck make him want to curl up like this and never move again. He’s so comfortable right now, despite the wet stickiness under him where his come is seeping into the blanket, despite the soreness which begins to set in his muscles, even despite the fact Rick is a heavy son of a bitch. He could stay like this forever. 

“C’mon, we should clean up,” Rick says softly and pulls out. 

Daryl winces at the discomfort the motion causes. “Don’t wanna move,” he mutters. “Get back in me. Wanna feel ya.”

“I won’t get it up again so soon, darlin’, not even for you,” Rick says with a soft chuckle. He gets up and smack’s Daryl’s right buttcheek. “Come on, baby. We’ll take a shower, then go to bed. Maybe I’ll be ready to give what you want by then.”

“No maybe ‘bout it, Grimes, yer gonna fuck me again tonight or I’m gonna tie ya to our fuckin’ bed until ya get hard,” Daryl threatens, and slowly gets to his feet. He’s wobbly, like every time they’ve done it this way, and he’s already sore, but it feels good. He’s not sated yet, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be with a lover like Rick, but he’s calmer. 

He belongs. He’s Rick’s, and he belongs with Rick, in Rick’s bed, in Rick’s arms, in Rick’s family. 

“I love you,” he says softly. 

Rick leans in to kiss him on the cheek. “I know, darlin’. I love you too.”

And, really, it’s everything Daryl’s ever wanted.

*

They spend Halloween trick-or-treating with the kids. Carl’s dressed as a hunter with a crossbow. Judith goes as a princess, though Daryl claims it’s not fair because it’s not really a costume. 

“Yer a princess every day,” he complains.

“But I don’t wear a tiara! So it don’t count,” Judith explains.   
Rick laughs at them. He’s wearing his old deputy uniform with the insignia removed. The cop outfit makes Daryl hot inside, but he does his best to hide it. He’s not going to simply hand his husband another weapon with which to torment him. If he’s got a uniform kink, Rick’s going to have to work much harder to learn about it. 

Though if he keeps bending like that, maybe he’ll learn much sooner than Daryl wants it to happen. Those slacks make his ass look downright _ delicious. _

Daryl doesn’t dress up, not really. He wears a cat headband because Judith insists everyone has to have a costume, and it’s the easiest thing to pull off. He looks ridiculous, but it’s okay. Nobody’s going to be looking at him anyway. The holiday is for kids. 

The do the tour of the neighborhood and the children get large hauls of candy with minimal tricks to be performed. They wrap the mailbox in front of Aaron’s house in toilet paper just because, even though the man and his husband Eric have given them big bags of Hershey’s Mini Peanut Butter Cups. Daryl’s sure Aaron will bitch about it at work tomorrow and he can’t wait. He happens to think it’s hilarious.

When they get back home, both Carl and Judith demand that they sort the candy immediately. Daryl gives in even though Rick protests that it’s school night - it’s Carl’s first year of school which he’s been loving so far - and they spend another hour sorting the sweets into piles for everyone. Judith shares her toffees with Daryl again, just like last year. Carl claims he hates the coconut flavor now, so he gets most of the peanut butter candies and some licorice, even though Rick warns him he’s going to hate it.

“Let the boy learn,” Daryl jokes. He loves all kinds of candy, but he doesn’t really consider licorice as such. In his book, it falls firmly under the _ poison _ category.

They both laugh at the face Carl makes when he pops a piece of licorice into his mouth. 

*

After New Year’s, Daryl wakes up to a ghost in the room. He nods at the ghost in greeting, grabs a pair of pants because he’s not going to get out of bed butt-naked, and he heads to the kitchen where Rick’s making breakfast.

“Got someone’s unfinished business to take care of,” he announces, sitting by the table as Rick puts a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. And a cup of coffee. What exactly had he done to deserve such a perfect husband?

“Will it take long?” Rick asks before kissing the top of his head. “Janice and George will be here tomorrow. It’d be nice if you were here. They like you better than me.”

Daryl scoffs, but really, he secretly thinks it’s true. Janice especially has warmed up to him over the months. She still criticizes him openly whenever she sees him, but she’s been baking an awful lot of cakes she knows he likes most. 

He looks at the ghost. It’s a little boy, maybe a bit older than Carl, maybe not. Daryl hates it when they’re children, it always reawakens that familiar feeling of guilt. 

“How can I help ya, lil’ man?” He asks.

The boy glances at him shyly. Daryl notes that he’s dressed awfully thin for January. His pants have holes and he’s got no jacket. “My sister,” he says very softly. “I gots a little sister and she’s very cold, sir. I was keeping her warm but I can’t anymore. Can you help her?”

“Well, shit,” Daryl says, gets up, grabs his jacket and heads to the door. He thinks back, returns to the kitchen, kisses Rick on the forehead and then runs out of the house, following the ghost to where his sister is. 

Priorities, man. Priorities.

*

Little Gracie joins the Raleigh family after only a month in foster care; nobody knows how it’s possible that the paperology got processed so fast and the gay couple weren’t given more trouble. Nobody but Daryl, that is. As per his promise, Jesus didn’t demand a naughty picture for his help this time. 

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” He said when Daryl called him on the phone.

It’s still a mystery to Daryl how a ghost can use the telephone or the Internet. How Jesus was able to make himself visible to Rick and Carol, when no other ghosts Daryl's seen could do that outside of Halloween. He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand. The supernatural has more mysteries than he cares to know. What matters is, Jesus is there when Daryl needs him, and Daryl still visits his grave sometimes, and maybe that’s what friendship means. 

So Aaron and his husband Eric adopt Gracie, and her older brother - his name was Dan - thanks Daryl before he moves on to wherever it is ghosts go afterwards. The little girl was lucky; Daryl found her quite easily with Dan’t guidance in an alley behind a hostel in downtown DC. Dan’s body didn’t even start to decompose yet. The baby was tucked inside a wooden crate, wrapped in thick layers of blankets and a jacket which must’ve belonged to Dan. The boy told Daryl that they didn’t have a home; their mommy left them there a week earlier, promised she’d be back soon but she never returned. He didn’t blame her. Something must’ve detained her. Something important. 

He only wanted Gracie to be okay, and Daryl made sure of that for him.

Later, Daryl finds out that the children’s mother didn’t come back because she overdosed on heroin. He hopes wherever the woman went after she died, it’s not the same place Dan went to. She didn’t deserve such a wonderful little boy. She deserves to burn in hell. 

“You guys know I love you, right?” He asks Carl and Judith that evening. Carl is sitting at the table, doing his first homework ever - drawing a picture of his family which, in Daryl’s expert opinion, looks amazing and should be exhibited in museums nationwide - and Judith’s playing with Cat. Dog is asleep next to Rick who’s napping after a hard day of work. Apparently, being a stay-at-home dad is actually harder than it sounds. Daryl doesn’t question it. He comes back from the garage every day to a two-course meal and a clean house despite it being full of two very destructive children, a dog and a cat. If anything, he admires Rick all the more for being able to accomplish that.

“We love you too, dad,” Carl says, and then looks up at Daryl; there’s something hopeful in the way he bites his lip as he keeps his eyes locked on Daryl’s face.

It’s the first time he’s calling Daryl that, and to be honest, Daryl doesn’t know what the appropriate reaction is; so he grabs the kid, picks him up from the chair and hugs him tightly to his chest, despite his indignant protest because _ hey, I’m not a kid! _ Then, he picks Judith up too, and the girl squeals happily, and calls him _ daddy, _ and it’s the best feeling in Daryl’s life. Especially when Rick’s arms are suddenly around him too, and his husband murmurs sleepily into his neck, 

“We make a cute family, darlin’,” and Daryl can’t agree more.

That night, as he’s falling asleep with Rick wrapped around him, he makes a mental note to thank Beth the next time he sees her. After all, it’s only because she came to him with the request to solve her murder mystery that he’s this happy now. And even though the road wasn’t easy, even despite all the horror and pain he went through, he’s damn grateful. 

He sees ghosts, but then again, it’s not a bad thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! This story took a lot out of me. I wrote the majority of it over one month, and you guys gotta admit it's huge. I'm not completely happy with everything in it, especially the chapter pacing (I hate how some chapters are shorter and others are very long), but it's because work has taken a toll on me this past October. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for following this story! 
> 
> Your regular updates to The Shark Heart coming soon ;) And I'm pretty sure there's some random one-shot canon-set prison-era porn coming along, but you didn't hear it from me~

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please come shout at me on tumblr at most--curiously--blue--eyes


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